


A Noble Steed

by alby_mangroves, leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angst, Animal Transformation, Art, Beefy Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Fictional European Country, Happy Ending, Horses, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Illustrations, M/M, Magic Natasha Romanov, Magical Realism, Modern Steve Rogers, Non-British Peggy Carter, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Professor Abraham Erskine, Protective Steve Rogers, Royal Peggy Carter, Royal Security Agent Sam Wilson, Sharing a Bed, Warhorse Bucky Barnes, Welcome to Daelland, brief canon typical violence, dubious seismological science, royal bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24448027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: "You say the Warhorse showed up last night," Sam said in tones of profound doubt."Yeah," Steve replied."TheWarhorse. The Warhorse of legend.Daelland'sWarhorse.""The same as the one on the back of the transit card, yes.""And he appeared in your living room?"Steve eyed the Warhorse, very large and very black and giving him a dubious look out of his strange grey eyes. "He's standing in it right now.""Uh huh," Sam said."Hey, I'm not any happier about it than you are."*   *   *Steve's mom had left Daelland long before he was born, following her heart to New York, but she'd raised him on stories of its famous Warhorse. Before she died, he'd promised he'd go back and learn the country she'd come from.Thatwas why he was in Daelland.Notso Daelland's legendary Warhorse could appear in his living room. But planned or not that's what had happened—now Steve had to figure out what to do about it.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 274
Kudos: 1500





	1. In Daelland's time of greatest need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nonymos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/gifts).



> LH: Happy birthday, Nonymos! I hope you like it (and that it fulfills your daydreams of 'On A Pale Horse' with Bucky as a cursed black stallion ridden by Tiny Steve). TY for being a great friend and all around awesome human being <3\. 
> 
> alby: Happy Birthday dear friend! I hope you enjoy our humble gift and have an absolutely smashing and wonderful day. We love you! ♥
> 
> Fic notes: I have to hat tip to Susan Dexter's 'Warhorse of Esdragon' series, from which I nicked the idea of a kingdom having an immortal Warhorse. I have also followed in the [footsteps](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_fictional_European_countries) of [well-worn](https://theotherpress.ca/marvels-fake-countries-and-where-to-find-them/) [tradition](https://www.huffingtonpost.com.au/entry/fake-european-countries-of-royal-romantic-comedies_n_5c1d0ab7e4b05c88b6f80ab3?ri18n=true) and created a European country.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is brief violence in this chapter and non-graphic descriptions of injuries to a horse.

**_Prologue_**

_The kingdom of Daelland, the late 1100s_

Bucky had never been so grateful for his horse. She was solid and strong and even though she was as exhausted as he was she kept putting one hoof in front of the other. Taking him home. Thankfully the castle wasn't far now, which for her meant stables and a rubdown and warm mash. He wished he could be so lucky. He'd even take a warm mash at this point, the winter wind whistling in under his cloak as he huddled over her neck, but first he'd have to deal with his father.

The king.

Bucky hadn't been born the son of a king. He'd been born the son of an earl. But after fifteen long years of civil war, his father had declared that peace was betrayal and the wrong blood on the throne, even temporarily, had been enough to make him abandon both his Earldom and the kingdom of his birth.

He didn't know if his father had begun with the intention of a kingdom of his own. Whatever his original intent, he'd eventually gathered a small army, made up of his people, like-minded lesser nobles, and mercenaries his former homeland had expelled, and taken this expansive valley for his own.

It was fertile, its surrounding slopes gentle and good for grazing, and he'd slowly pushed out to claim the adjacent land. It was only when the part-built castle tumbled to the ground that they discovered the hidden sting.

Earth shakes. The land his father was now king of, the land his people had followed him to, and former nobles and once-mercenaries had sworn fealty for, believing promises of safety and prosperity, twisted and churned like a raw gelding with a saddle burr.

Bucky had spoken in favour of leaving, because how could they keep their people safe from the earth itself? They'd barely begun claiming it and there were other places they could go. The lands around them were chaos and there had to be somewhere who would welcome a strong leader, someone with the will and strength of arms to protect them.

His father's— No. The newly crowned king's reaction was something he tried hard to forget.

Just like he tried not to remember the people they'd lost. The people who'd died, the new-built homes destroyed because his father—the king—was too damn bloody minded to admit this was a bad place to grow a kingdom.

Now, years and countless shakes later, he'd found an answer: the mage riding behind him on an equally exhausted gelding. It had taken time to find him, and Bucky promising his estate to get him to come, but he swore he could bind the land to stillness. Truth was, Bucky would hand over every scrap of _everything_ he owned, including the beloved mare carrying him closer and closer to home, if that was what it took to make this land safe for their people.

"Are we nearly there?" the mage called.

Bucky lifted his head and squinted through the growing dark. There was the rockpile to the left of the road, half-dug away. "Not far. Can your gelding handle a trot?"

"If it gets us there faster? He'll manage."

Bucky frowned, but clucked to his mare. She broke into a shuffling trot, ears pricked forward, then sped into a canter. She knew they were close, and Bucky knew if he asked she'd give him her last breath.

They rounded the curve and the castle swept into view. It was low and squat, sprawling out over the grounds like a blanket, no high towers, no rising walls. They'd tried that. They'd fallen in the earth shakes.

The guards challenged but let Bucky pass when they realised it was him and he rode straight up to the main gate, dismounting and handing his mare's reins to the groom who hurried to take them. "Look after her," he said, scratching under her bridle, smiling when she rubbed her head on him, just about knocking him over. "She's worked damn hard."

The mage handed his gelding's reins over without a word, pulled a pouch out of his saddlebags, then looked expectantly at Bucky.

"This way," he said, giving his mare a last pat. 

They found the king in the great hall, holding court, a celebration in full swing. The mage raised an eyebrow and Bucky shrugged. As they pushed their way through the courtiers, his father spotted him, calling out, "Prince James! You've returned, finally. Did you tire of running around other people's lands?"

"I did. I also found—"

He waved a hand dismissively. "You missed the big event. You're an uncle!"

Bucky stopped dead in his tracks. Had he been gone that long?

"And no longer a spare heir!" There was a rumble of laughter from the crowd. "Your brother had a big, healthy boy."

"That must have shocked the midwife."

There was a beat of silence, then his father roared with laughter. "Very good." He beckoned them closer, waving the nearby courtiers and men-at-arms away, leaving the three of them in a little bubble of silence. "Now, who is this you've brought to Our hall?"

The mage bowed, _very_ slightly, prompting a narrowing of his father's eyes, and Bucky hurriedly said, "This is the mage Althalos. He can stop the earth shakes."

Bucky had the entirely unexpected pleasure of seeing his father struck speechless. His jaw worked but no words came out. The look he turned on Bucky demanded an explanation.

"It's true. I swear," he almost said _father_ , but caught himself, "my king." 

"I do not work for free, mind," the mage said, folding his arms and tucking his hands into the sleeves of his shirt. "Your son promised me his estate in exchange, and the working will need to be bound to something unchanging or the whole thing will be pointless, but I can do it."

"James." There was pride in his father's voice. Pride and a thread of something Bucky didn't recognise. It was amazing he recognised the pride, he'd heard it so rarely. "You would do anything to protect this kingdom, wouldn't you?"

His brain was fogging with exhaustion, but he smiled, his father's words like the warmth of a hearth fire. "Yes, of course. They're our people."

"Go. Rest. You look done in. We'll discuss this more tomorrow. For now, I'll see to your mage."

He nodded and made his way out of the great hall, winding around the revellers celebrating the birth of his nephew—and he was an _uncle_ ; that was going to take some getting used to—to make his way down the long corridors to his rooms, strip off the bare minimum to sleep comfortably, and fall face down on his bed.

* * *

Bucky woke groggy, cold stone under his hands and rough under his knees. He tried to stand, but shackles held him in place. A brief struggle proved they couldn’t be escaped.

He went still, casting about in the dim light of the torches for some clue to where he was. The shackles binding him at wrist and ankle were iron sunk into a stone floor. Stone walls surrounded him. A stone staircase in one wall told him how he'd gotten here, but nothing else.

 _I went to sleep in my bed, in my quarters in the heart of the castle. If I've been captured, the castle's fallen. Did I sleep through it?_ He closed his eyes, fighting to remember. If he'd taken a blow to the head, he could have forgotten. He'd seen it before, fighters who'd lost all memory of who they were. But he felt no pain; apart from being shackled to a stone floor he felt nothing but muddled.

Footsteps. His eyes snapped open. A bright glow on the stairs heralded the arrival of possible answers and Bucky narrowed his eyes, waiting to see the face of his captors.

As they came into view, he met his father's eyes.

"Hello, James." Behind him, holding a lantern, was the mage. They came down the last of the steps and into the room—which must be under the castle, Bucky realised, and everyone in it was perfectly safe.

_Apart from me._

As the mage hung the lantern on a hook, Bucky's father walked unhurriedly towards him and stopped just out of reach. "I hope you're not too cold," he said.

He hadn't been. Now he shivered, but it had nothing to with the cold.

"If you are, this won't take long," his father said soothingly, and Bucky understood that he wasn't going to walk away from whatever was about to happen. 

But he'd known that from the moment he woke up. He just hadn't expected his father to be the one… His thoughts blanked. "What are you going to do to me?"

"I'm going to give you a chance to be so much more than a prince my kingdom no longer needs." He flinched, but his father didn't seem to notice, gesturing expansively as he said, "You're my son, my son and my blood, and securing the future of the kingdom is what sons are for. But your brother has done his duty and given me an heir, blood of my blood to sit on the throne after I'm gone, and a second son is no longer necessary."

He waved at the mage, standing under the lantern, surrounded by shadows. "You did well bringing Us this mage, but he can do more than stop the earth shakes." He beckoned him forward. "A king gets one legacy, the knowledge that their blood will stretch into the future, ruling the kingdom they created. I will have two: my blood on the throne and my blood protecting the kingdom."

He gestured to the mage, who knelt at Bucky's shoulder.

"Don't do this," Bucky whispered, dread rising as he finally understood what he was to his father: he was nothing. He wasn't _James_. He wasn't _Bucky_ , could never have been Bucky, a name used only by people who'd looked at him and never seen a prince. He was a thing to be used. Now that his brother had a son— _I'm an uncle_ , he couldn’t help thinking wistfully, _and I'll never get to see my nephew_ —his father…

 _No, he's not really my father, is he? He's my_ sire. _My mother was just a broodmare for him to get sons on. No wonder he didn't care when she died._ A laugh tried to bubble out of his chest, but he fought it back. _That's why they call kings 'Sire'._ "You can't do this."

"I'm sorry." The corner of the mage's mouth lifted, a haggard phantom of a smile. "But I could have one estate or, if I do as your father asks, he'll grant me all your lands, a title, and the favour of a king." Unspoken was the inevitable fate that would befall even a mage who refused a king, when that mage knew the king intended to sacrifice his son. "What would you do?"

"Not this. _Never_ this," he spat back and then, mind desperately seeking a way to survive, he remembered. _He remembered._ "And neither can you." It had taken him a lot of searching to find a mage capable of stopping the earth shakes. It had meant learning enough about magic to know when he'd found that mage. "You need me to agree before you can work magic on me. And I don't. I won't."

His father crouched in front of him. "You already did," he said softly as he brushed the hair off Bucky's forehead. It was a gentle touch, a father's touch.

Bucky jerked his head back and his father looked at him sadly, as if Bucky were the one being unreasonable. 

"I asked you," his father said, "if you'd do anything to protect this kingdom. And you said yes."

"That's not, it doesn't." He twisted desperately against the shackles, feeling them bite into his wrists. "That doesn't count."

"I'm afraid it does." The mage looked genuinely contrite. "You need to be careful what you say." He paused, casting a veiled look at the king. "Normally one doesn't have to worry about that with family."

The king said, "Careful," in a dangerous voice, and Bucky closed his eyes.

They snapped open at the sound of a blade unsheathing. His father was holding a dagger. Bucky jerked his head back, but his father grabbed his chin, grip hard, and dug the point of blade into his cheek. Blood welled and rolled down his face.

This was happening. He couldn’t escape. He couldn’t fight. His heart beat harder, faster, but he clenched his teeth. He wouldn't give them his fear.

He searched desperately for something to hold as a bulwark against terror and betrayal as his father drew the dagger across his own hand. He found the memory of being thirteen, sword in one hand, shield in the other, scared and fighting in a bloody battle when his mare's bridle had been ripped right off her head. He'd thought that was the end, but she'd listened—to body, to knee—and they'd gotten each other safely through. She'd trusted him, he'd trusted her, and they'd survived.

"I'm sorry," the mage said as his father pressed his bloody hand to Bucky's cheek, and he wanted to laugh because what did it matter if he was _sorry_ , he was still going to do it.

He was still going to do it.

Magic struck like winter. It howled down on him and he shook like the earth, crumbling down. A fist crushed him, squeezing him like dough, and he rose up, and up, screaming as ice ripped through his bones, blinding him, suffocating him, tearing away his senses and when his vison cleared there was an empty spot in front of him. He could see all around to the sides. The world blurred again and there was metal in his mouth, straps on his head. Something belted around his back.

He squealed and tried to kick out, there was clatter of metal on stone, but the shackles held him in place.

His father smiled.

 _What did you do to me?_ His scream was nothing but a coughing whinny, but still his words made it through. 

"I made you a weapon in this kingdom's arsenal. A warrior is nothing without a warhorse. A good warhorse is the difference between victory and defeat, and I've made you the greatest warhorse the world has ever known."

He clamped his teeth down on the hard metal in his mouth—on the _bit_ , Bucky, there's a bit in your mouth and a bridle on your head and a saddle on your back because you're a horse—and flattened his ears.

"I'm sorry you can't understand, James. I'm doing what's best for the kingdom: my blood on the throne and my blood guarding it. Someday I hope you'll be able to see that. You're going to have a great deal of time to think about it." He gestured at the mage. "Finish it."

With a nod, he turned to Bucky. He spoke and the words were motes of light, settling into his skin, pulling him into frozen nowhere, his awareness fading until the world was gone.

* * *

The world roared back, stinking of blood and shit, filled with screams and the clash of metal.

He ducked, reins flying, as a sword flashed for his neck and then a brutal yank dragged him to a halt. A heavy weight wrenched his back as someone hauled themselves into his saddle. Spurs jammed into his sides. He leapt forward with a scream of outrage, but a hard hand ripped his head around. He twisted his neck enough to see the man on his back…

And froze.

It was his brother.

The spurs dug in again, sending him leaping forward over a dead horse. It shook him out of his shock. A second look as he ducked and spun—avoiding a spear, lashing out at another horse, tiny compared to him, as its rider tried to stab his rider—and he'd been wrong, it wasn't his brother. But god, he looked so much like him.

The fighting grew fiercer, like the entire opposing army was trying to kill the man on Bucky's back, and it was second nature to fight. Gradually, his rider loosened the reins, gave Bucky his head. Let Bucky fight and pick the best path. He called out and his men were rallying. A banner was lifted, flying the family crest.

 _The_ family crest. The crest that had once been his.

Their enemies fell before them as Bucky led the charge, dwarfing the horses around him, heavy hooves pounding them into the churned earth, teeth tearing at human and horse alike. He was a demon, unstoppable, a fighter's knowledge in a stallion's body and the will of a man to wield both.

The battle ended. Bucky snorted a victory. His rider slid off his back and limped around to stand at his head, disappearing as he stepped into the blank spot. Bucky tipped his head, making him reappear.

The man who looked like his brother was staring at him in awe. "Is it you?"

Bucky was bleeding from a dozen cuts, aching, trembling with exhaustion. His back hurt. His mouth hurt, his tongue torn from the bit, but his ears pricked forward.

"My grandfather told me if the kingdom was ever in danger, help would appear." He swallowed. "It was in danger today. If we'd lost this battle…"

A man wearing a tabard with the family crest approached, eyeing Bucky cautiously. "Your Highness?" 

"He came from nowhere. They cut my horse out from underneath me. I was down. I would have been dead, but suddenly this destrier appeared."

 _I'm your uncle_ , Bucky tried to tell him, because this man could be no one but his nephew, but the words in his mind were ash and smoke, dissolving before they could form. _I'm a person_ , he tried with the same result. _Please. Can you hear me?_ , he asked desperately, and _felt_ it go through.

A strange look passed over his nephew's face. Bucky _knew_ he'd been heard, but his nephew didn't respond, didn't acknowledge his words, only shook his head and wrapped a hand around Bucky's nose. "Thank you, grandfather," he said, gazing into the sky. "We won't forget this."

Rage tore through Bucky and his body responded. Ears flat, he backed away, half rearing. His nephew grabbed his reins, trying to pull him down, but he lunged backwards, ripping them free, and reared to his full height as the world dissolved away.

* * *

It didn't take him long to learn how it worked.

Time and time again, when the kingdom needed the Warhorse it dragged him from the nothingness.

 _The Warhorse_. That was what they called him, because he'd become a legend and a legend needed a name. The Warhorse was a magical stallion, a giant unstoppable destrier who could fight faster and longer than any mortal horse. Who could fight and kill as well as any warrior; _better_ than any warrior, because he was mastered by the hands and heels of whoever he appeared for.

But however pleased they were when he stepped from nothing, they never listened when he talked.

Bucky _knew_ they could hear him—they reacted fast enough when he said _duck—_ but when he tried to talk to them there was nothing. He'd given up trying to tell them who he was; he'd learned it was impossible, and he cursed the king even as he wasn't surprised. If he could tell someone the truth of what had been done to him they might break the magic, and then where would his father's blood legacy be?

He just wanted to _talk_ to someone, wanted someone to _hear_ him, but they refused. They were warriors. Fighters. Knights and nobles. However magical and legendary the Warhorse, he was a horse, sent to serve them as they fought for their kingdom and if they thought they heard a voice in their heads, they dismissed it.

Eventually he stopped trying. 

He still fought. Still threw hooves and teeth and body into battle, because protecting the kingdom, keeping its people safe, was what a prince was for.

* * *

The first time he was gutted he desperately prayed for death.

He understood the tactics: take out the horse, you take out the fighter. You couldn’t save a horse with its guts opened. All you could do was cut its throat and grant it a quick clean death. Unless you were dealing with the Warhorse.

There was no mercy for him. No kindness. You just waited to see if he'd heal.

They shoved his guts back into his body and dragged him off the battlefield. He couldn’t curl around himself. He couldn’t weep or scream. He could only lie there while his guts writhed inside him, knitting themselves back together. It wouldn't have been quite so bad if he hadn't been alone. There was a pair of guards patrolling, back and forth, and their route took them past where he lay, but they didn't stop. Didn't talk to him. If they'd just talked to him. Told him it would be okay. Touched him.

No. He was alone. He was the Warhorse, the kingdom's weapon, and you didn't comfort a sword while the blacksmith hammered it back into shape.

He didn't know how long it took but the stars were fading in the sky when he finally staggered to his feet.

* * *

The stories of the Warhorse changed after that. He'd come for you, the legends said, if you were the one the kingdom needed, but you were in for a rough ride.

* * *

The kingdom was ever-changing, flashing past like sparks from an anvil, its sounds, its smells, the ground under his feet. Armour changed, and weapons; the horses grew taller, broader, came close to reaching his size, even as their saddles shrunk. Language changed, falling strangely on his ear, but _he changed with it_. The strange was made familiar and he could always understand. And while he'd long since given up trying to talk to people, he still shouted warnings—warnings they imagined they conjured from their own minds—and he was understood in turn.

When the kingdom didn't need him, he was nowhere and nothing. Each time he arrived in the ever-changed world he was changed to match. He was grateful in a way. If the words spoken around him had become gibberish he'd be that much closer to the animal they thought he was, but whenever he was spat out into the world it was different and so was he and another part of who he'd been was lost. 

As time rolled on and the centuries passed, the kingdom growing and prospering as he hurt and fought and ran until his lungs bled, the only constant was the stars.

* * *

Bucky hit the ground and rolled, coming up unhurt, reins hanging over one ear, and shook himself. He leapt into the air at the shock of noise, dirt and rocks exploding into the air as a flash of bright blue hit the ground, and pinned his ears.

_What the hell?_

This was not Daelland. He could feel it in his bones, feel it in his hooves. Where the hell was he? He ran for the trees as another noise boomed before he settled down and focussed on the pull.

There.

He tilted his head to give himself a full view of the battlefield. There were no horses, no swords, no cannon, but men fell and died and _burned_ , struck by the bright blue light. Explosions sent dirt and bodies flying.

And the call was coming from the other side.

_Great._

He watched, planned, then dug in and bolted. He couldn’t be seen but getting _accidentally_ hit by the blue light would be small comfort, considering the stench of burnt bodies and the pieces he was galloping over.

As he got closer, he could see a ditch, deep enough to hold him, men ducking and firing back at the light. He jumped over, spun on his heels, and leapt into it. The man he'd been called for turned as he landed and pointed a long gun at him.

Bucky snorted and stamped a hoof. _Save me from idiots_ , he thought, _does he think horses are just wandering around battles leaping into trenches?_ He pushed closer, ignoring the gun, and blew moist breath right in the man's face.

"…Warhorse?" he asked in a shaky voice.

Bucky flicked an ear. The weapon sagged and the man's eyes were huge.

Some of the other men were starting to turn, the rest still firing. "What's going on?" one asked.

"It's…it's the Warhorse," his target replied.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Can you…can you make it so they can see you?"

Bucky guessed that was a reasonable request. He gave the mental twist that brought him into step with the rest of the word and learned a lot of new words which he carefully filed away.

"Shit," the man who'd first spoken said. "You're from _Daelland_."

Bucky's target nodded.

"I thought the horse thing was a myth."

Bucky's target slowly shook his head. "I guess not."

"Fuck me."

Bucky's target nodded again. "But he's only supposed to show up when the country's in real danger."

"Max, if the Nazis win the whole _world's_ fucked. I'd say that counts." He stared at Bucky, but Bucky had the feeling he wasn't seeing…anything as the sound of fighting washed over them. "Here's what's going to happen," he finally said. "You're getting on your damn magical horsie and you're getting the intel out."

"What? No."

"It's not a suggestion. It's an order. That horse is here because your country's on the verge of getting fucked. I can put two and two together with us being the only ones who know they've been building magic weapons and magic planes and magic fucking bombs. If we don't get the warning out, give our guys time to prepare, time to counter it..." He pulled a leather packet out of his shirt and shoved it into Max's hands. "So you're going to get on your horse, take the intel, and make sure we don't lose this damn war."

Max's fingers went white around the packet.

In a much softer voice, barely audible over the sounds of battle, he said, "One of us has to get out." He grabbed Max by the shoulder and squeezed hard. "Sometimes making the sacrifice means you’re the one that has to live."

Max bowed his head, then shoved the packet down his shirt. "Help me on."

Bucky presented his side to Max. The others boosted him up and once his feet were in the stirrups, Bucky gave a little shake, making sure he was solid in the saddle. His hands were tentative on the reins, but he tugged Bucky's head around and gave a little kick.

Bucky launched himself up and out of the ditch. Behind him, he could hear guns firing. The blast of magic and bellows of defiance followed them and as Max hunched over his neck, reins abandoned as he clung to the saddle, he did the only thing he could for him: ran fast enough to leave the sounds behind.


	2. The Warhorse comes, a noble steed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this is set now, it's not our now. It's a different now where all of this *waves at the world* isn't happening.

_In Daelland's time of greatest need  
_ _The Warhorse comes, a noble steed  
_ _Black of coat and grey of eye  
_ _Immortal horse who cannot die  
_ _Bound by girth and bit and will  
_ _The Warhorse runs, the Warhorse kills  
_ _Through fire and blood he'll see you true  
_ _So heed the call if he comes for you  
_-traditional Daelland skipping rhyme

* * *

_Now_

Steve dropped to sit on the arm of the couch and frowned at the Warhorse standing on his coffee table.

Or rather, he frowned at the lack of Warhorse standing on his coffee table.

It had taken him a couple of days, but he'd finally finished unpacking and made the unhappy discovery that sometime between being carefully wrapped in New York and being unwrapped in his new apartment in the capital city of Daelland, his mom's Warhorse figure had fritzed out. Instead of a miniature Warhorse that randomly reared, pranced, or dozed he had an empty pewter base. He wasn't sure how it had broken—it was _magic_ ; it wasn't like it had moving parts—but for all he knew maybe magic was sensitive to luggage scanners.

Steve's whole life the figure had taken pride of place in her living room, only leaving it when Steve had moved it to sit next to her bed at the hospital. He'd been ruthless, stripping what he owned to the bone for the move here, but this he'd kept. He'd just have to try and find someone who could fix it.

A little pang of grief made him stand up and walk to the window. It was a nice view, looking out over an old section of the city, window boxes and narrow cobblestone streets giving the illusion of a different time. Two blocks away it turned into modern sleekness and wide, smooth-paved roads and a conveniently located bus stop, but he'd enjoy the illusion.

He'd been here before, when he was a kid, back when his dad had still been around, his parents bringing him to visit the place his mom had grown up. He'd always meant to come back. Before his mom died, he'd promised he would. That had been six years ago. Six years he'd spent slowly drifting through a life he'd barely been paying attention to.

Two months ago, he'd been feeding the ducks, tossing them bits of apple, when it hit him that they didn't care who he was. They just wanted his food. It had followed like a one-two punch that the rest of his life wasn't much different. He'd let his friends drift away. He barely knew his co-workers. His job was one anyone could do and if it disappeared completely nothing in the world would change. He'd stared at the ducks milling around his feet, realising that if someone lifted him out of his life, no one much would notice.

The next morning he'd called in sick and got the ball rolling on keeping his promise. It had been embarrassingly easy. Now he was here with a job lined up to start next month with a non-profit that developed educational materials for groups like Teachers Without Borders. They specifically tried to recruit people from as many different backgrounds as possible, and they'd been happy to bring an American graphic designer on board.

Steve couldn’t help thinking his mom would be happy to see him here.

His stomach suddenly rumbled, and he laughed and took the hint: stop staring moodily out the window and go find something to eat.

Since he hadn't done grocery shopping beyond the basics, eating meant going out or ordering in, so he grabbed his phone off the coffee table. His eyes fell on the empty pewter base sitting next to it. After some quick searching, Steve found what he was looking for, wrapped the pewter base in a t-shirt, slid it into a bag, and left. 

Tech had started easing magic out post-World War Two, had muscled it out almost completely by the early eighties, but that didn't mean it was gone completely. Like everything else that had been replaced by modernisation, some people persisted with the original, turned into a hobby or a niche profession or, in some cases, bars like The Besotted Squirrel.

It was beautiful. Almost seemed to glow when he walked in, and he couldn't help wondering if they used magic to actually make it glow. There was lots of dark wood, high ceilings lined with heavy beams that gave it a sense of age he wasn't used to, and the lights were balls of bright magic, hovering just below the beams. Quiet music he didn't recognise, the vocals in what he was sure were French, played in the background, and as he made his way to the bar, he had to dodge a floating tray that was following a casually dressed patron like a well-trained dog. The scent wafting from it made his stomach growl.

A sign, in the dual English and French he was already getting used to seeing everywhere, told him to order at the bar. Literally told him, the English smooth and accentless. He assumed the soft French was the same as the English, but for all he knew it could have been insulting his shoes.

The bartender, a big burly man in a white shirt with a black bow tie, sized him up and greeted him with a, "What can I get you?"

"A menu would be great."

"American?"

"Yeah," he said. He was, technically, a Daellander citizen, but answering anything but yes to that question would be a lie. He wondered how long he'd have to live somewhere before his answer would ever be anything but yes.

The bartender slid a menu across the bar. "We don't get a lot of tourists in here, not unless they're magickers…?"

It was almost hopeful. "Not a magicker," he said quickly. "I can't even pull a rabbit out of a hat. But I'm also not a tourist. I'll be staying for a couple of years. At least that's the plan." He reached into his bag and pulled out the pewter base. "But I was hoping you might be able to point me to someone who could fix this?"

The bartender held out his hand and Steve passed it over.

"It's supposed to project a figure, but it broke on the way over."

"This is pretty old." He turned it over to look at the bottom and whistled. "The company that made these shut down about sixty years ago." At Steve's surprised look he added, "My grandad used to work there. Might even have done the working on this figure. Where'd you get a thing like this?"

"It was my mom's."

"I can fix this easily. Tell you what, you go ahead and order. My shift's over in half an hour. I'll fix it for you then."

"Are you sure? I don't want to—"

"It's fine. Happy to help. My grandad wouldn't want one of these out in the world and not working."

Steve expressed his gratitude and was waved off, so he ordered and ate and was drinking an excellent beer when the bartender slid into the seat across from him and set the pewter base carefully on the table.

"There you are. Good as new." He ran his thumb over the activation panel and the Warhorse sprang to life, prancing in place, before he shut it off again.

"Thank you," Steve said warmly. "Can I pay you?"

"Consider it a welcome present, since you're not a tourist." He grinned. "But I wouldn't say no to a drink."

"I can do that," Steve said and offered his hand. "Steve."

"Noah," he said, shaking Steve's hand. "I'll have what you're having." 

When Steve got home a few hours later, he carefully set the Warhorse figure on the coffee table, then stood in the living room for a bit, contemplating. He wasn't ready to sleep, so he grabbed a handful of pencils and his sketchbook.

He was in a good mood, and a little buzzed, so he made himself comfy on the couch. He was just noodling, nothing in particular taking shape—a bird's wing here, the edge of a building there, a woman's face—but he was relaxed, happy.

Until he looked up and saw the huge black horse standing in the middle of the living room.

* * *

Bucky usually appeared in battles, either in the middle of people doing their best to kill each other or waiting in the leadup to the inevitable. He was a warhorse, key word _war_. Even when it wasn't literal war, there was always conflict. Desperation. Immediate need. Fight, flight, or fury.

This…was new. He wasn't sure what to make of it. He didn't know how much time had passed since he'd been ripped away from Max in the middle of a war, but he did know this was about as far from that as he could get.

There was a small man sitting on a couch drawing in a book. There was carpet on the floor, soft under his hooves, and this could not be a less martial setting if it tried.

It made sense, given the setting, that the man also couldn’t be less martial if he tried. Bucky thought he'd fall over if he tried to swing a sword. He could probably use a gun; they looked lighter and easier to use. But Bucky had spent most of his very long life around warriors of all descriptions and this man didn't have the look.

The fact that he hadn't noticed Bucky yet wasn't helping that impression.

Bucky wondered if he should make a noise, because this man was definitely his target. He could feel the call like a rope binding them together.

Suddenly, the man looked up and his eyes locked on Bucky. Bucky tilted his head slightly.

"What the fuck…"

Bucky was thinking the same thing.

"Okay, Steve." Bucky watched him put down his book and his pencil with elaborate care and pick something up off the table. "There's a horse in your living room. There can't be a horse in your living room, which means something else is going on." He fiddled with it, and a tiny horse flashed into life, trotting in place. He looked from it to Bucky and back. "Okay, it's not that."

Bucky flattened his ears as the tiny horse disappeared and the man sighed, shoulders slumping, as he set it back on the table. "That means that the nice bartender probably put something in my drink. _Damnit_." He punched the pillow. 

About the only thing Bucky made sense of out of all of that was that the man's name was Steve.

Steve picked something else up, poked it, held it to his ear and started talking. "Hi, yes, can I get a taxi? Yes, that's the right address. Going to the hospital emergency room. Thanks. I'll be waiting downstairs."

Without looking at Bucky, Steve stood up, put the thing in his pocket, shoved something else in his pocket, put on his shoes, and left.

Bucky stared at the door when it closed behind him. Now what was he supposed to do?

* * *

Steve stood on the street waiting for the taxi. He didn't always do what was smart, but if someone had, what, roofied him? The hospital made sense. Or the place was a magic bar, he guessed they could have magicked him into seeing things, and neither of those could be good. Not if he was seeing horses. Pink elephants would be worse, but a black horse was bad enough.

The sound of metal chiming on cobblestones made him lift his head. The horse was pacing slowly towards him. _Great, now the hallucinations have sound._ It was huge, huge and black, ears tipped back and head low, the metal on its equipment jingling slightly. Each step was deliberate. The phrase _built like a brick shithouse_ insisted on making itself known.

He knew it couldn’t be real, he knew it wasn't real, but he still gave ground, kept giving ground until his feet were in the garden and his back was pressed against the wall of the building. Thank god no one was around to see him.

The horse kept coming. He could feel the heat of it, he could _smell_ it. It bared its teeth and caught Steve's sweater by the shoulder, lifting him off the ground so he was dangling in the air. Steve flailed, but the horse gave him a shake and dropped him, then side-stepped closer until he was squeezed between the horse's shoulder and the building.

The horse twisted its neck around to glare at him out of one grey eye.

He was pinned, he couldn't move, and this…this wasn't a hallucination. This was real. "You're real."

The horse took half a step back and snorted, long and hard and, Steve couldn't help but think, sarcastically.

Steve fumbled his phone out of his pocket, barely took his eyes off the horse as he hit redial, and said, "Cancel the taxi," before shoving the phone back in his pocket.

Caller ID would tell them who it was. Just like his rational brain, the part that considered Occam's Razor a valid lifestyle choice, was telling him what was standing in front of him. What had to be standing in front of him. The rest of him was drifting peacefully on De Nile. Because it couldn’t be. It absolutely could not be.

It wasn't that he didn't believe in the Warhorse. He couldn't say he didn't believe in the Warhorse, not without betraying everything his mom had raised him on. But there was a big difference between I don't _not_ believe and _I believe_.

Abuse of double negatives aside, _I believe_ was pounding on the doors of his lingering grasp on rationality, insisting that this was the Warhorse. But it couldn’t be, the rest of him argued, and even if it was, why would he appear now, here, to _me?_

His rational brain coughed politely, sent him digging in his pocket for his wallet to pull out his shiny new transit pass. There on the back of the brightly coloured plastic was the doppelganger of the horse standing in front of him. Pitch black, grey eyes, built like a brick shit house—except the expression on the one in front of him was less _dignified and serene_ and more _probably-going-to-bite-you._

Steve laughed. He slid down the wall, sat his ass down in the garden, and laughed.

The horse…the _Warhorse_ sighed.

"Sorry. Sorry, it's just, you're a _story._ You're a legend. You're not…" He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked up at the Warhorse. "What the hell do you want with _me_?"

A question I'm now asking myself repeatedly, the Warhorse's ear flick seemed to say.

"Shit. You only show up when the country's in danger." He scrambled to his feet. "That's what all the stories say."

The Warhorse tilted his head, eyeing Steve. It felt very much like being asked, 'Yes, and?'

"And, okay. Right." His rational brain seemed to have hauled the rest of him out of the Egyptian river, and they were once more working together. "Not sure what kind of threat a horse could help with." He winced at the pinned ears. "No offence!" he said quickly. "It's just there's not a lot of fighting on horseback these days. But you're here, so there must be something. And I have absolutely no idea why you'd end up with _me_."

It was easy to understand what the curved forward ears, the little snort meant.

"I'm an artist, a graphic designer. The people I work for, I mean I haven't started yet, but I will in about a month. What they do's important, they're trying to help people, but it isn't even for Daelland. And I'm barely even a Daellander. I'm American. I mean, I'm both, technically, but I'm from New York. Not here."

The Warhorse pawed the ground and looked at him doubtfully.

"You and me both, buddy. Unless the country's going to be saved by an infographic, I'm not sure how I can help." He sighed and scrambled to his feet. "You know what? if the country really is in danger I feel like this might be bigger than me. Can it wait until tomorrow?"

The Warhorse gazed back at him blankly. Steve decided to take it as a yes. 

"Okay, in the morning. Uh, I have nowhere to put you, unless you want to spend the night in the living room. Wait." He stared at the Warhorse. "How did you even _get_ into my apartment? There's no way you'd fit up the stairs."

That got him an…amused? He thought it was amused…ear flick and tail swish.

"Magical warhorse. Right. You go where you want."

That was _definitely_ an amused ear flick tail swish combo.

"Well, will you be all right until morning?"

With a contemptuous snort, the Warhorse trotted off down the street, hooves chiming against the cobblestones. Steve watched him go until he faded out of sight. Then he rubbed his hand over his mouth, stared up into the night sky, and whispered, "What the fuck?"

It was anyone's guess whether it was a curse or a prayer.


	3. Black of coat and grey of eye

Sunrise found Bucky standing in Steve's living room. He'd spent the night wandering the city, unseen and unnoticed, trying to grasp just how much had changed.

Everything was faster, brighter—even at night. There was almost no sign of magic, even if half the things he'd seen looked like they'd need magic to work. The city was easily five times the size it had been last time he'd seen it—five times the size and ten times the height, gleaming buildings stretching high into a night sky whose stars could barely be seen past the city's lights.

He hadn't gone any closer to the castle than he'd needed to establish that it still stood, skirting away from that end of the city, too much buried anger waiting to claw its way out.

He'd made his way back to Steve's as the sun rose, using the power that let him always find his target to sidestep through the world and appear in Steve's apartment.

He wasn't awake yet, judging by the snoring Bucky could hear through the walls. Funny that a little guy like that could make a noise that big. He eyed the door consideringly, then lifted his head and bugled a war cry.

There was a crash, a " _W_ _hat the hell?",_ and a scramble, then the door slammed open and Steve was standing there, sheet wrapped around his waist, glaring at him.

Bucky stared back innocently.

Steve's eyes narrowed.

Unconcerned, Bucky turned his head to nibble an itch on his shoulder, his bit jingling.

"The neighbours are gonna hear that racket and call the cops. I don't think they're gonna take 'oh, the Warhorse, yes Officer, _that_ Warhorse, showed up last night and he's a lousy roommate' as an excuse."

Right now, only Steve could see him, and that meant only Steve could hear him, but Bucky simply kept nibbling his shoulder.

Steve made a growling noise and threw the hand not clutching the sheet up in the air. "Just, keep quiet. I'm gonna get dressed and then I'm getting coffee."

A few minutes later, Steve came back into the living room, wearing jeans and a sweater instead of a sheet and, ignoring Bucky entirely, went straight into the kitchen. Bucky wandered after him, sticking his head over the counter, his reins trailing, to watch him mess around with water and a jar and a machine and then stand leaning over it while it burbled and gurgled.

The smell made him wrinkle his nose and snort.

Steve just waved a hand at him without turning around.

When the noises stopped, he poured himself a mug, wrapped his hands around it, and took a big drink. The sigh he let out was so deep and heartfelt _Bucky_ started to relax. He took another sip, then another, then leaned back on the counter, facing Bucky.

"Sorry I snapped at you."

Bucky had no idea how to react to that.

"Not a lot of sleep, plus too early morning plus no coffee yet, and I'm kind of an asshole."

Pawing the carpet delicately, he shook his head, setting his bridle jingling. People didn't apologise to him. Truth was, people didn't talk to him, not like this. Not like he could understand.

Watching him thoughtfully, Steve gulped down more coffee, then put down the mug and walked over to reach a hand towards his head. Bucky shied back, flattening his ears. 

"Sorry." Steve held up his hands. "I wasn't going to do anything bad. It's just, shouldn't that stuff come off?"

Bucky tilted an ear at him in question.

"Your saddle and your…headgear, I don't know what it's called, but I know horses don't wear it twenty-four seven. They get it taken off when their work's done."

Bucky dropped his head to the floor, blowing out a breath, and wanted to laugh. Or maybe cry. His work would never be done. As long as there was a kingdom, a country, he'd be its weapon, its warhorse, and his work would never, ever be over.

"Hey." Steve's voice was soft. Bucky twitched because Steve was crouching next to him and he hadn't noticed him moving. "You okay?"

He lifted his head, so it was level with Steve's. Steve didn't move, didn't flinch, even though he had to know Bucky could do serious damage to him.

"Because you kind of don't look okay."

Understatement of the centuries. He'd learned how to do this. He fought. He ran. He carried his riders into danger or away from it. Sometimes he was wounded so badly it would kill a normal horse. There was never time to think, never time to be anything but the Warhorse. Never any expectation he was anything but the Warhorse.

This man with his soft living room and his no danger and his quiet words was leaving far too much space for _Bucky_ , and that could only lead to pain.

"Can I take your gear off?" he asked, then laughed quietly under his breath. "If I can take it off. I'm not sure even YouTube can help me with it."

Bucky lifted his head and backed away, chewing the bit. He tried to imagine it gone from his mouth. He couldn't, his senses too flooded with the biting taste of iron. Steve didn't move from his patient crouch on the floor. Bucky took one hesitant step forward, another, then flicked his head so the reins landed in front of him.

"I'm going to take that as a yes," he murmured.

When he touched the straps, his fingers were delicate and careful, and that was entirely new. Most of the time, no one pulled Bucky's tack off. Sometimes because he wasn't around long enough. Sometimes because there wasn't a chance. And sometimes because they thought the tack kept the creature that was the Warhorse bound. He didn't know how that one had gotten started, but he cursed whoever came up with it.

When they did untack him, no one was gentle. No one was careful. It was perfunctory and rough and it was never off for long. He almost shivered as Steve worked his way over the bridle, trying to figure it out.

"Okay, so this goes here, and under here and this buckle should…" Steve trailed off, fiddling with a buckle, undoing it and moving onto the next and the next and then he was reaching up over Bucky's head and grasping the band and pulling the whole bridle off. Bucky spat the bit out and worked his mouth. It had been so long since he'd been without it he'd forgotten what it felt like.

Steve dropped it on the counter.

"Better?"

Bucky snorted softly.

"And again, I'm taking that as a yes. Saddle?"

He bowed his head.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "I've seen two kinds of saddles, both on TV. Great big ones like cowboys use, and the little ones like the fancy riders in the Olympics use. This doesn't look like either of them."

Bucky didn't know what either of those were, but considering his saddle was intended to keep an armoured knight place, and it had been a long, long time since he'd seen either a knight or a saddle like his, he wasn't surprised. He pawed the carpet.

"Keep your shirt on. I'm working on it." He studied the straps holding the breastplate on, made a _huh_ noise, then undid them, ducking under his neck to get the other side, then pulled it off and let it fall to the floor. Then he flipped the saddle flap back, undid both girths, pulled them through the strap of the breastplate, then hauled the saddle off, setting it on the floor. "That was easier than I thought." 

Bucky shook himself, contemplated rolling on the carpet, then thought better of it. He did rub his head against Steve's shoulder, scratching all those itches he'd been unable to reach for so long, hard enough to send him stumbling backwards until he braced himself on the counter.

"Watch it! I'm not a scratching post." He didn't try and push Bucky away, though. Just held steady and let him scratch. "Finished?" he asked when Bucky finally stopped.

Bucky ambled away to sniff the couch, then went to look out the window.

"Mom's stories never said anything about this," Steve muttered and poured himself another cup of coffee.

* * *

By the time the morning had reached a respectable enough hour that official people would actually be answering their phones, Steve had made a trip out to the corner store, breakfasted on the spoils, tried (and failed) to feed the Warhorse a bowl of carrots (which would have been one of the most surreal experiences of his life if the previous night hadn't happened), done some research on who to call, and fallen down an internet rabbit hole. Or rather, an internet Warhorse hole.

His mom's stories had always been _stories_. Now, with the Warhorse dozing in front of his living room window, eyes half closed, ears tilted to the sides, those stories were suddenly a lot more pressing.

His phone beeped and the Warhorse snorted awake, giving Steve a narrow-eyed look as if to say _I wasn't sleeping_.

"I never said a word." It was surprisingly easy to work out what he meant, assuming Steve wasn't projecting. He was probably projecting; the Warhorse was a _horse._

The major difference between calling government offices in Daelland and government offices back home, he soon discovered, was that everyone here was nice. They tried to be helpful. Even so, the result was the same, minus the frustrated rage. He was bounced from person to person and office to office with nothing to show for it but a series of hold-music earworms. Finally, when he'd relayed the situation yet again (Warhorse showed up, doubt it's a good thing, I'd like to report it to someone so they can do something about it and the last person I talked to sent me to you), the woman he was talking to said, "I don't think anyone in government's going to be able to help you."

"I'm getting that," Steve said. "You're about the tenth person who hasn't been able to."

"No, I mean I don't think we _can._ We don't have jurisdiction."

"Sorry?"

"Responsibility for the Warhorse rests solely with the monarch," she said, with the air of someone reading something.

"You're saying I have to call the king?"

"I'm not saying you have to call anyone. All I'm doing is telling you that our constitution clearly sets out that matters related to the Warhorse fall within the powers of the monarch, not the government."

"I don't know what to do with that."

"I'm sure you'll think of something. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

He said no and she wished him a good day and hung up.

Steve leaned back and let out a frustrated sigh. "This should not be this hard." He stared at the Warhorse, who was regarding him with absolutely no sympathy. "She said you’re the monarch's problem. I have no idea how to contact a king, but I can probably figure something out."

What had been a warm, breathing horse became a solid, frozen statue, ears pinned back. Steve very carefully didn't move. He wasn't sure what would happen if he did. He wasn't afraid, precisely, but he was cautious. After a moment, a barely perceptible shiver brought the Warhorse back to life and he turned away from Steve.

"Is that not a good idea?"

There was no response, not even an ear twitch.

"I'm going to try. It's not like it can hurt. My mom," he looked down at the phone in his hands, imagining her reaction to all this; utter delight didn't even begin to cover it, "my mom always used to say the worst you can end up is back where you started, so you might as well try."

The Warhorse gave him a dubious look, but he ignored it, picked up his phone and after some quick searching, found a number for the castle. It was for information on tours, but it was a place to start.

No one hung up on him immediately. He _was_ bounced from person to person, however, before he finally ended up with a stern sounding woman who answered the phone, "Sally Taylor," and demanded to know how he'd gotten her number.

"I didn't," Steve replied. "Someone, I don't remember who at this point, I've talked to so many people, put me through to you."

"I see."

"I'm calling about the Warhorse."

"What _about_ the Warhorse?" she asked suspiciously.

"I've got him."

After a long moment that felt like it wanted to be filled with laughter, she said, "I know just who can help you. Hold on."

There was a click and a beep and a few minutes of hold music before the phone was answered. "Sam Wilson."

Steve didn't mean to say, "You're American," but after a day of listening to the soft-burred Daelland accent, it slipped out.

"So are you," was the dry reply.

"Sorry, I just wasn't expecting an American."

"What can I say. I fell in love, followed my heart, and here I am. What's your excuse?"

"Mom was a Daellander. I promised before she died that I'd spend some time here."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Sam said and he sounded like he meant it. Steve had had practice telling lip service from genuine. "And now that we've shared our innermost secrets, maybe you can tell me why you're calling?" He paused. "And how you got this number?" Another pause. "And who you are?"

"Right. Sorry. I'm Steve Rogers. The woman I was just talking to said you could help with my problem. She put me through to you."

There was a barely supressed sigh from the other end of the line. "Did she happen to be named Sally?"

"Yes."

The supressed sigh made a return, only without the suppression. "Then I guess you'd better tell me your problem, Steve Rogers."

"Okay." Steve stared at the Warhorse. "My problem is that last night the Warhorse showed up in my living room. And since he only shows up when the country's in danger, and not one damn person in the government seems to care, I'm telling you. Because it seems like the kind of thing someone should know about."

There was a long silence. Long enough Steve thought maybe they'd been cut off. "Hello? Are you there?"

"Oh, I'm here. I'm just contemplating several ways to _thank_ Sally for putting you through to me."

"Okay?"

"You say the Warhorse showed up last night."

"Yeah."

" _The_ Warhorse. The Warhorse of legend. Daelland's Warhorse."

"The same as the one on the back of the transit card, yes."

"And he appeared in your living room?"

"He's standing in it right now."

"Uh huh."

"I'm not any happier about it than you are." The Warhorse gave him an offended look and Steve shrugged at him.

"I doubt that. Look, Steve. I feel like we've gotten to know each other, so can I give you an idea of how my day's going so far?"

"Sure."

"So far today I've had to deal with not one but two petitions from overly concerned citizens. One from a bunch of—" There was a cough. "I mean one from a group of citizens who think Princess Margaret shouldn’t be heir because, according to them, the king's choice and her marriage to the prince aren't good enough. The other's from a group who say even though the king's not dead yet—that's how they put it, not dead yet, which is a nice, respectful way to talk about our dying king—his illness means he's not fit to rule and since the prince is dead, Princess Margaret needs to take the throne now. These are the kinds of people I'm dealing with."

"That's really shitty."

"It really is. To top it off, I have to deal with everyone who's coming out of the woodwork saying they can heal the king with various sorts of magic, most of it discredited for fifty years and all of it's bullsh— bunk. Nothing can heal the king. He's sick and he's dying, and I have to deal with that, too."

"I'm sorry," Steve said, quiet and sincere.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then, "Thank you," came back, just as quiet and just as sincere. After a moment, Sam continued in a much franker, less official tone, "Steve, you sound like a reasonable guy, but you also sound like half the people who claim they have the Warhorse. As it happens, I believe in the Warhorse. I believe he existed. But back then a warhorse was a tank and an aircraft carrier and a special forces squadron all rolled into one. Nowadays? It's a horse and how is a horse going to help anyone?"

"What if I bring him to you?"

A longsuffering sigh. "Okay, one, that would tell me you have _a_ horse. Anyone can buy a horse. And two, if I let everyone who claims to have been chosen by the Warhorse bring it to the castle—or sent someone to check it out—do you know how many horses we'd be looking at?"

"A lot?"

"A lot. I don't mind telling you, we'd be looking at five to ten horses a month."

"Oh."

"Some people don't wait, they just show up at the castle with it. And I say _it_ , because even though the Warhorse is a stallion, sometimes their 'warhorse' is a mare, or a gelding. One time it was a donkey. That one was pretty cute, though."

"Sam, I swear I'm telling the truth. The Warhorse is standing in my living room right now. Looking at me like I'm an idiot. I can bring him to you and you can see him." He could hear how he must sound. "I promise he's not a donkey."

"As sane and reasonable as you seem, and as much as I'm enjoying this conversation compared to the ones I've been having lately, no. And if you do have a horse, and honestly believe it's the Warhorse, you might want to hit up one of the hipster magic bars and get it checked out, because it's possible someone's playing tricks on you."

"There's nothing you can do?"

Sam sighed again. "What's your email? I'll send you a form."

Steve recited his email, Sam repeated it back, said, "Now I've got to go. Good luck with your horse," and the line went dead.

Twenty minutes later the form arrived. It was a 'Report of Property Lost on the Castle Tour' form with the title scribbled out and 'Report of Found Warhorse' written under it.

It was Steve's turn to sigh. "Guess there's no help coming from there."

Just to be difficult, he filled out the form, in extremely specific detail, and sent it back.

When it was gone, he walked over to stand next to the Warhorse. Tentatively, Steve rested a hand on his neck. It got him a flicked-back ear and a rolled back eye, but other than that he didn't react. The muscle under his palm was hard as stone.

"Did you know," Steve said, "that you apparently show up five or ten times a month?"

His head swung around so fast Steve had to jerk back to avoid getting hit in the face.

"Not you, obviously, but people who think they've got you. Or are trying to pull a scam. Or who knows what." He ventured a soft pat and the black head dipped low. "We're on our own."


	4. Immortal horse who cannot die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief, non-graphic descriptions of past injuries done to Bucky as a horse in this chapter.

There was a look in Steve's eyes, his chin high, shoulders back—Bucky was reconsidering his initial thought that Steve couldn't be a warrior. Right now, he wasn't sure he'd want to cross him.

"If we're on our own, we'll have to figure it out on our own." Steve turned to face him, the determined light in his eyes sparking something in Bucky. "You wouldn't be here if you weren't needed. I don't know why you came to me." He let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. "If I'm even the right person."

Bucky had no doubts. He might not understand why it had brought him to Steve, but the call was as strong as ever. It couldn't be mistaken for anything else. It was the only thing holding him in the world. He didn't exist outside of that call. When the threat to the country manifested and Steve stopped it or failed to stop it, he'd be—

He stopped, ears curving slowly forward, tracking Steve as he slowly paced, staring at his phone.

Steve had said _we. We're_ on our own _._ _We._ _We'll_ have to figure it out.

Bucky had been spat out into the world too many times to count. He knew he'd never be a person again. He was the Warhorse, but the Warhorse was immortal, a legend, and for that he was denied even the grace of being a trusted steed. He was the _Warhorse_. To the people he was called for that made him a weapon to be wielded, a tool to be used.

But Steve… Steve had said _we_.

He reached out and snagged Steve's sleeve with his teeth, making him jump. When he was sure he had Steve's full attention, he let go and very deliberately nodded.

Steve slowly set his phone down. "Did you just nod?"

He did it again, just as deliberately. Steve had said _we._ For that, Bucky would give him this.

Steve let out a shaky breath. "Can you understand me?"

He nodded again, a tiny flutter of humour making his tail swish.

"Shit," he murmured. "That's… I don't know what that is." He rubbed a hand over his face. "And you're sure it's me?"

Again, he nodded, but flattened his ears and rolled one eye back.

It made Steve grin. "That's clear enough. Okay. You're sure it's me, and I know it's you, so that makes it simple. Sort of. We just need to figure out what threat could possibly be facing the country that's so bad you showed up and also how to stop it. No problem." He rubbed both hands over his face and laughed. "No problem at all."

Bucky stamped a front hoof and snorted impatiently.

Steve's hands fell. The light in his eyes sent a shiver through him. It wasn't dangerous, not quite, but he felt like with very little encouragement it could be. "You're right. Wait here." He disappeared into his bedroom and came back with a slim grey box. He set it on the table and opened it. It whirred and lit up.

Bucky sniffed it, touched it with his top lip, then tilted an ear at Steve.

"This?"

He nodded.

"Right. Of course you wouldn't know what this is. The last recorded sighting of you was in World War Two." He glanced up at Bucky. "And you're a…" He frowned. "A horse."

Bucky almost seized up as an impulse he'd thought long since burned out of him kindled into life at the doubt in Steve's voice, but he crushed it.

"It's a computer. Think of it," he stopped, stared at it like he'd never seen one before, muttered, "Sure, Steve, explain a _computer_ to the _Warhorse_ ," then said, "It's like a very complicated piece of paper that can tap into every library that ever existed." He paused. "A library is a collection of information and books. I type on the keys," he tapped them, "and things appear on the screen." It filled with light as a chime played. 

He sniffed the computer again and decided to take Steve's word for it. The world had changed in ways even the greatest bards, deep in their cups, couldn’t have imagined and for him those changes had happened in the blink of an eye. No time to rest, no time to live with them, just one moment the world was like this, the next like that, over and over and over again. A grey box that could work wonders wasn't hard to believe. 

"We're going to use it to figure out what's going on."

 _We_ again. He moved so he was standing behind Steve, watching the screen.

"I've only been here for a few days. The only thing I know about Daelland current events involves the royal family, and that's only because what happened with the prince was all over Twitter. And that's about a year out of date." 

Bucky gave Steve a sharp look, stamped a hoof.

"What?" Bucky flattened his ears. "The royal family?" Bucky nodded. "Hang on." His fingers flew over the keys and the screen turned white, black writing on it too small for Bucky to make out. Steve spent a few minutes reading it, then said, "Okay, Daelland became a constitutional monarchy and a parliamentary democracy about three hundred years ago. That means people vote for who they want to be in charge. It happened peacefully, no fighting. The King or Queen's still technically in charge, they sign off on laws and things, but according to this it's mostly a formality. This says they also have 'various official, ceremonial, diplomatic, and representational powers and duties'."

Bucky rocked back on his hooves, shocked, but it slowly gave way to gleeful vengeance, imagining his father's reaction. He'd be _furious_. All his father had wanted was his blood stretching out forever to rule his kingdom, and maybe they still had the throne, but compared to his father they were _powerless_.

It was beautiful.

Steve was watching him, brow furrowed. Bucky realised he was dancing from hoof to hoof and forced himself stop.

"Big fan of democracy, are you?"

Bucky snorted at him.

"Hey, I wasn't the one dancing." Bucky snorted again, repressively, and Steve grinned at him. He typed some more, the screen flashing in gaudy colours, read, typed, read, the screen flashing again. It went on for long enough Bucky wandered away. Eventually, Steve leaned back, head tilted to stare at the ceiling, "Okay, there's people who aren't happy with the princess, but from what that Sam guy said and what I can see online, they're writing petitions and rants on Facebook and letters to the editor. No one's, I don't know, planning to blow anything up. And even if they were, you would have gone to someone who could deal with that, someone in her security team. Maybe to her. Not to me."

He jabbed Steve with his nose.

"Hey! What was that for?"

He snorted again, dipped his head, then flicked his ears forward.

Steve stared at him, brow furrowed. "The princess?" he ventured.

He nodded.

Steve's face fell and he ran one finger down the edge of his computer. "That's…" He shook his head. "It was fucking tragic. There was a car accident. Prince Alec was driving. A car coming towards them swerved, completely out of control—the driver was drunk—and they had to make a choice. Avoid it, but then it would have hit the car in the lane next to them, or keep driving and let it hit them.

"I guess all the royal cars are monitored since they don't seem to travel with much security, and afterwards some asshole leaked the audio online. It's still up, but I'm not finding it for you. I wish I'd never heard it. You can hear them. You can hear Princess Margaret say, 'there's kids in the car' and the Prince say 'right, then'. You can hear it in their voices. They knew what they were doing. The car next to them, it did have kids in it, a whole family. They got away with scrapes and bruises. The prince died. The princess was hurt badly enough they didn't think she'd make it."

It struck him hard. Unbidden, his imagination supplied what his _father_ would have thought of a prince making that choice. He shied away from it and concentrated on Steve's words.

"When Prince Alec died, the king made Princess Margaret the heir, and from what I've read there wasn't really any other choices. It looks like people were fine with it, but now that the king's dying, some people have decided to kick up a stink." Steve scowled. "I don't get the monarchy thing, but anyone who says a woman like that isn't good enough to be a queen can go to hell."

He sighed.

"There's nothing else going on that I can see. Daelland isn't involved in a war. There's no protests, no elections coming up, everyone seems basically satisfied, or at least not the kind of dissatisfied that leads to country-endangering threats. And again, you showed up _here_. With _me_."

Steve did seem to keep getting stuck on that. When he'd first seen him, Bucky had felt the same, but it seemed less strange now. Whatever Steve was on the outside, he was beginning to suspect, was only the tiniest part of what Steve was.

"It can't be anything to do with work, because I don't start until next month," he said. "I guess I could call and have an incredibly awkward conversation just to rule it out." He rubbed his forehead. "Any thoughts?"

Bucky had none. This was so far outside his experience it may as well be the distant stars. He'd been an heir, a spare in case something happened to his brother, and his whole life his role had been to obey his father, first as earl and then as king, support his brother, and to fight. The first time he'd stepped outside the boundary of those roles to find a mage to stop the earth shakes his entire life had been ripped apart and he'd been turned into this. It wasn't an experience he was keen to repeat. 

Steve was looking at him expectantly, as if he thought the Warhorse might have something to contribute. Bucky dragged one hoof across the carpet and shifted his weight, the closest he could get to a shrug.

"If we can't figure it out from what's happening now, maybe we need to look at what you've done in the past. When you've shown up. If we can figure out some sort of common denominator, maybe that'll give us an idea of what we're dealing with." He snorted a quiet laugh. "And it's not like there's any shortage of info about you."

* * *

Steve realised about five hours later that too much information was the problem.

He was struck with a deep well of sympathy for Sam Wilson, because a good sixty percent of the links he followed dumped him into someone's blog about how the Warhorse had come to them—or their parent or grandparent—only no one had ever believed them. Some of them were clearly fiction—he thought _most_ of them were fiction, but with the actual Warhorse standing _in his living room_ he couldn't help wondering if maybe some of them weren't. Maybe some of them had been where he was.

Of course, the country was still standing, so maybe not. Where had the Warhorse even come from? How old was the magic that had made him? What criteria decided there was a threat worth summoning him up for? Maybe the magic was so old it was starting to break down.

He rubbed his temple and closed a browser tab explaining how the Warhorse had come to the writer in a dream and inspired them to fight to change the food labelling standards so the country of origin had to appear above the ingredients.

The Warhorse was asleep, head low, one back leg cocked at an angle, ears twitching. He was almost cute like that, if you ignored the maybe fifteen hundred pounds of muscle and the fact that he was made to fight and kill. He looked different without all his gear on, but Steve could still see the marks of where he'd worn it.

Those marks bothered him. A lot of things were bothering him about the Warhorse. Why, in everything he'd read, was there no mention that the Warhorse could _understand_? The ear flicks, the dubious looks—Steve could easily have projected those onto the Warhorse's body language, imagined the Warhorse responding to him. People did it to dogs and cats all the time; why should magical horses be any different? But there was no mistaking that nod. He'd nodded in response to a direct question. And sure, there were fantastically trained animals who gave the illusion of understanding—but the Warhorse had initiated it. He'd reached out to Steve, with massive teeth he was still a little unsure of, and made him pay attention.

That wasn't the action of a trained animal. The Warhorse _understood_. He'd responded to what Steve had said and did and asked and explained.

There was something happening here he didn't understand. He glanced at the Warhorse's headgear, hanging over the arm of the couch, at the piece of metal attached to it that he'd pulled out of the Warhorse's mouth—a brutal, thick chunk of metal that had been shoved in the mouth of something that could _understand_ —and had to look away.

He set his laptop aside and made his way over to the Warhorse. He wasn't stealthy, but the Warhorse didn't stir, didn't move until Steve was right beside him, saying, "Hey," and reaching to touch his neck.

It was like flicking the switch to bring a storm to life. He lunged into the air, hooves high above Steve's head, ears brushing the ceiling as he whirled, eyes wild, teeth snapping in Steve's face.

Steve scrambled backwards in shock, overbalanced, and hit the floor. Huge, metal-shod hooves slammed down on either side of his head and he froze, hands lifted in a futile attempt to protect himself. Nostrils flared inches from his face, and he could see the whites of the Warhorse's eyes.

The Warhorse went still. The whites faded from his eyes. He didn't move, but his skin shivered. His face relaxed, teeth disappearing. His ears slowly slipped forward.

Steve didn't try and move. His heart was starting to figure out how close that had been and was trying to beat out of his chest. "Don't wake you up," he said, trying for casual. "Got it."

The Warhorse took careful steps back until he wasn't standing over Steve. 

Steve sat up. Feeling a little like he was poking a bruise, or maybe waving a red rag in front of a bull, he asked, "Just curious, but, being picked by you, or by the magic, or however this works. Does that mean you can't hurt me?"

Slowly, the Warhorse shook his head.

"Right. Good to know." He hauled himself to his feet, amazed at how steady he was, and turned to walk back to his laptop.

The Warhorse stopped him. His head snaked out and he caught Steve's sleeve in his lips, then let go and backed away. Steve turned to face him. His whole body was rigid, teeth clenched tightly, his ears flat to his neck, tail flicking madly.

Steve wasn't sure what was happening, but he waited. With an explosive snort, the Warhorse suddenly relaxed.

_I won't hurt you._

Steve almost hit the floor again when he heard the words in his head. His knees wanted to give up the job, but the rest of him bullied them into cooperation and he stayed standing, staring at the Warhorse. "Did you…talk?"

The Warhorse just looked at him.

"Wait," he said as reality tried to reassert itself. Understanding was one thing; speech was something else. "No." He ran a hand through his hair. "I think I'm losing my mind."

He flinched like Steve had stabbed him. _Please,_ landed in his mind, tinged with desperation, _you have to hear me_.

"That was really you."

_Yes._

"How can you _talk_?"

After a silence long enough Steve's doubts started to creep back, he heard, _It's part of the magic_.

Steve stared at the Warhorse. The legendary immortal warhorse who didn't eat and didn't drink and could appear at will in his fourth-floor apartment. The magical warhorse who'd been appearing from nowhere to save the country for centuries. "You can talk," he said, and it was no longer a question.

He dipped his head.

"Could you always talk?"

_Yes._

Steve had to ask. "Why didn't you before? It would have made things easier."

The Warhorse whirled on him, ears pinned, and Steve took two wary steps back. Not afraid, he wasn't afraid of the Warhorse, but there was something in his eyes, burning anger… Right now, Steve wasn't sure what or who he was seeing.

_You try being left gutted and alone on a battlefield and see how much fucking easier you want to make things._

It punched into him, the fury, the pain; he couldn't help reaching out, couldn’t help _reacting._ For one long second, he thought he'd lose a hand, the Warhorse's promise aside, then there was warm hair under his palm as he pressed his hand against the Warhorse's cheek.

How did you comfort a horse? He stepped forward, pulling gently, and then the Warhorse's long head was pressed against his chest as he heaved in great breaths.

Steve wound his fingers in his mane and stroked his head gently with his other hand. He stayed silent, sensing words wouldn't help, but he couldn't help running his fingers over the marks left by the headgear, wondering what kind of person shoved metal in the mouth of a creature who could talk.

* * *

Eventually, Bucky sighed and stepped back, avoiding looking at Steve.

He'd been dreaming. In his dream he'd been human again, shackled to a floor while a mage long dead apologised for what he was about to do. Steve's hand on his neck had been his father's fingers in his hair, that lying, benevolent touch, and suddenly he hadn't been shackled. He'd been free.

Free to almost kill Steve. For the first time Bucky was grateful for the body he'd been given; anything less and he wouldn't have had the strength and control to twist sideways, to make his hooves hit carpet instead of smashing bone.

However many times he was called back into the world, however much the world changed and the magic changed him to match, he would always remember Steve's words, asking if he could hurt him. They were part of him now.

Steve, the first person to treat him like something more, and Bucky had almost done worse than hurt him. Steve had no idea how close he'd come or he wouldn't be standing there so easily. There'd been only one way to tell him he wouldn't. Only one way to make that promise to both of them. And that was _tell him_. He'd had to fight himself to force the words out, afraid Steve would dismiss them as an errant thought, as imagination…

In the end, Steve hadn't failed him. He hadn't let him down. But when he'd asked _how can you talk_ , all Bucky could give in return was half-truth, the true answer burnt to ash and smoke before it could be spoken. For the rest… He could still feel Steve's touch. It was leading him down dangerous paths. And god help him, he wanted to follow. Maybe he'd been a horse too long.

Steve was watching him, a too-perceptive look in his eyes. "Is there something else?"

 _No._ Yes.

"Something you want me to do?"

_No._

"You're staring at me like you want something."

He shook his head. He was Prince James, Earl of Buchanan. Those were forbidden. But only a handful of people had ever called him Bucky. A few childhood companions when adults couldn't overhear. His father's marshal, who'd taught him a horse was a partner and not a slave. And when he'd gone in search of a mage, seeking among people to whom a title meant nothing at best and danger at worst—to them, he'd been Bucky. To _himself_ , he'd been Bucky. There was no reason it would have survived.

_I have a name._

"Okay," Steve said, carefully neutral. "Do you want to tell me?"

_It's Bucky._

"Bucky."

Hearing his name was like being gutted again, left ripped open and bleeding, except instead of pain he was filling up with light. _You can't tell anyone._

Steve came closer and held out his hand. "I won't." 

The strange thing was Bucky believed him. He fought with himself, then rested his nose in Steve's hand, closed his eyes when Steve's fingers curled to stroke his skin.

He'd stepped outside the bounds and, even knowing what happened when he did that, he believed that this time it wouldn't go horribly wrong. Of course, all he was risking was his name. He shivered. _All_ , like it wasn't the only thing he had.

"Bucky? You okay?"

_Fine. What now?_

Steve gave him a look like he wasn't sure he believed that fine, but he all he said was, "I need to ditch the internet and head to the library. They've got a Warhorse collection, with digitised records and database access, and I think that's the only place I'll find what we're looking for." He stopped. "Or I could just ask you."

Memory rose like a ruthless wave, blood and steel and endless running, and he dipped his head, mouthing at the echo of a bit, the taste of iron in his mouth. _I don't know how much help I'll be. Most of the time I didn't know what was happening besides fight or run._

"But you're the Warhorse."

It was almost perfectly naïve. Bucky wasn't sure whether to nuzzle him or smack him with his tail. _Yes, Steve._ It was hard to find words after so long silent, but he dug deep and dragged them out. _And no one talks strategy or tactics or politics with a horse._

Bucky didn't know whether anger or outrage or confusion was going to win as the emotions battled it out on Steve's face. They struck a truce and he had to deal with all the three as Steve said, "You're not just a horse."

_The people I've been called for didn't care._

Steve took a deep breath, hands curling briefly into fists. "I don't know what's going to happen. I have no idea if any of this is ever going to get written down, or if I'm going to end up a footnote on the internet, just another deluded guy for people to laugh at, but if it does, I'm going to make sure people know you're more than what you seem."

He had no idea what to say to that. He bowed his head and pawed at the carpet, which was starting to look a little worn in places, and Steve seemed to accept that as answer enough.

"But back on topic, I take your point. Okay." He rubbed a hand through his hair, making it stick up every which way. "Original plan stands, I'll pull what I can out of the records, and then go through it with you?"

He wasn't sure what he could offer, but he'd try. He snorted his agreement.

He waited as Steve got ready, then sidestepped though nothing and planted himself at the base of the stairs leading out of the building. It would give Steve a convenient place to mount from.

Steve, however, just walked right past him, glancing back over his shoulder expectantly. Bucky, after a moment's hesitation, trotted after him.

"I'm gonna assume you're invisible to everyone else?" he said, head tipped down, voice low.

_Not invisible. More here but not here._

"No one else can see you, though." 

_Not unless I let them. The only person it doesn't work on is you_. Steve gave him a sharp look. _I don't get to hide from whoever I'm called for._ He didn't give Steve time to respond, just pivoted on a front hoof and blocked the path. _Why are you walking?_

Steve glanced around. There weren't a lot of people, but there were enough to notice him arguing with thin air. He pulled out his phone and held it to his ear before replying, "Because it's not worth taking the bus for something so close."

 _No. Why are you_ walking _. I'm right here._

"And no one can see you. But they can see me." He waved his hand through the air at eye level. "I don't really want anyone to see me floating through the air."

He stamped a hoof impatiently. _No one will notice us, not unless you do something to draw their attention._

"That must come in handy."

_Sometimes. It won't work in battle, or if you try and kill someone or if someone's alert or watching for something strange. But if we ride quietly, keep away from crowds, it should be fine._

Steve's face went mulish. "I'm not riding you."

_What's wrong with me?_

"Nothing," he said soothingly, "but it's close enough to walk."

Bucky laid his ears flat. _Try again._

"Because I have no idea how to ride a horse?"

_I won't let you fall._

"Because…" He grimaced. "Because you're more than just a normal horse and riding you feels wrong."

_That's stupid._

Steve glared at him. "Thanks for that, but it's how I feel. Now do you mind?"

Bucky backed out of his way and fell into step beside him as Steve started walking, shoving his phone in his pocket.

* * *

The walk to the library was uneventful, Bucky pacing sedately—Steve almost thought sarcastically—by his side, until they approached the park that held the library. He stopped dead, then trotted forward to stare up at the statue guarding the entrance.

A bronze Warhorse reared above them, balanced on a stone pedestal, an armoured warrior on his back, sword held high.

"It's a good likeness," Steve said quietly, moving to stand beside him.

Bucky shook himself and turned away. _They didn't get my tail right._

"I'll send them a strongly worded letter."

Bucky snorted and they left the statue behind to walk up the path to the library. Steve paused at the bottom of the stairs. "Maybe you don't want to come in?"

_You mean don't come in._

"A horse in the library seems like a bad idea."

_No one will see me._

"Still."

With a bob of his head, Bucky turned and ran off across the grass.

Steve watched him go, then went into the library. It didn't take long before he was set up with a database log-in and he lost himself in story after story of the Warhorse. These weren't fanciful tales of wish fulfillment and fairy tales; these were academic accounts based on evidence and original documents and first-person accounts. He was surprised to find some arguing _against_ the Warhorse's existence. Some of them were convincing enough if he hadn't seen the living, breathing evidence himself, hadn't heard him speak in his head, he might have believed.

Or not believed.

He shook his head and relegated those authors to the metaphorical garbage. There were enough left to keep him occupied. The deeper he delved, the harder it got. There were detailed accounts of the Warhorse. Of what he'd done and what had happened to him. What he'd survived was horrific.

 _You try being left alone and gutted on the battlefield_ …

Steve pressed his fingers to the screen where a drawing showed a black horse with his front leg half-hacked off at the shoulder. He'd healed overnight, according to the account, then carried his rider to safety through the fight and vanished.

Warm breath on the back of his neck made him yelp in surprise. He spun in his chair to see Bucky looking pleased with himself…and everyone else glaring.

"Sorry," he offered, loudly enough to be heard by the everyone, "I thought there was a spider." The glares faded into understanding nods, with a few eyerolls, but they went back to their own work.

His eyes returned to Bucky and he couldn’t stop them from running over his body, down his legs, all those accounts of battle and blood crowding his mind, and the injuries… God. The injuries. The Warhorse wasn't just a horse. He could talk, he could understand, he had a _name_ , and it would be bad enough if he _was_ just a horse, a dumb animal who couldn’t understand, but he wasn't.

It must have shown on his face. Bucky backed away, ears flat, head high, and Steve couldn’t say a word. Not because he was in a library, and they'd think he was crazy if he started talking to empty air. Because there were no words for the feelings bubbling up in him: anger and sorrow and horror and a desperate hopeless desire to reach back in time and keep Bucky safe.

He reached out and Bucky whirled and ran, leaping right over a table of people, and was gone.

Steve put his head down on the desk. He wanted to go after him. He didn't. Better to let Bucky come back in his own time and they could both pretend this had never happened.

He gave himself a minute to sit there, then dived back in, because if the answer to why Bucky was here couldn’t be found in the present, maybe it could be found in the past.

By the time the library closed, he didn't have answers, but he did have a plan. There was no sign of Bucky outside, so he took a small detour before heading home. He couldn't help smiling a little at the picture of the Warhorse on his transit pass when he tapped it on the bus, because its serene expression looked nothing like Bucky.

The burst of relief when he got home and saw Bucky in the middle of the living room nearly took his knees out from under him. He didn't think it had anything to with nascent threats to Daelland. He also wasn't sure when a horse in his apartment had stopped being strange, but here he was. "I wasn't sure you'd come back."

 _That_ got him a sardonic look, like Steve had said something deeply stupid, and he went still, trying to piece through the implications. "You didn't have a choice?" he asked.

Bucky tossed his head, mane flying, but it felt like a deliberate non-answer.

Steve didn't press. "Right." The more he learned, the less he liked, and he'd thought he'd reached his limit for not liking this before he'd left the library. "I stopped on the way home and got you these." He pulled two brushes out of his bag. "We don't have to use them, but the woman in the pet store said they'd be good for horses. And I thought…" He looked down at them and shrugged. "You know, now that I'm standing here saying it, it feels stupid as hell, but the offer's on the table."

He set the brushes down on the actual table and went to get something delivered for dinner. At some point he was going to have to get groceries, but right now it wasn't high on his priority list.

"You're sure you don't need…something?" he asked before he sent in his order, but Bucky just looked at him. "All right. Just making sure."

While he waited for it to be delivered, he hopped up to sit on the counter. "I didn't find anything like what's happening to us. And there's too much information about you to figure this out on our own. I think we need an expert in you."

Bucky laid his ears back.

"Besides you. There was one name that kept cropping up, especially on the interesting stuff, the stuff that was more than just 'oh, isn't the Warhorse amazing, look at this history'. Or 'he represents our dream of a better world', or the ones that said you never existed. Those were my favourite. I get people don't go for magic anymore, but they can't erase it from history."

He kept explaining, running through some of what he'd found, pulling his laptop out to bring up his notes, watching as Bucky's ears slowly curved forward. He stayed away from what he'd found out about the Warhorse, about what had happened to him, and stuck to bigger picture of the conflicts that Warhorse had shown up for. A few times, Bucky snorted in what Steve thought was laughter.

A knock on the door interrupted him and Steve hopped off the counter to answer the door, accepting his food from the smiling young woman and offering her a generous tip which she looked at strangely, but took. "Hey, before you go."

She gave him a suspicious look and backed up a step.

"Nothing weird, I promise, just—do you see anything strange in my apartment?" He stepped out of the doorway, giving her a clear view of the living room and its very large black horse.

"Just you," she muttered, and left.

"That's somewhere I can never order from again," he said with a sigh.

Bucky made a sound that couldn’t be anything _but_ laughter and his words in Steve's head felt light. _What did you think she'd say?_

He quickly covered his flash of relief that Bucky was talking to him again. "Not sure. It's just interesting to be the only one who can see the giant horse in the living room."


	5. Bound by girth and bit and will

"Bucky. Bucky, hey." Steve stayed a decent distance away and called him, not wanting a repeat of yesterday. He believed Bucky wouldn't hurt him. He didn't see any reason to scare him into testing it.

Eventually, he stirred and stretched, neck elongating, and yawned, showing very large white teeth, then turned to blink slowly at Steve. _Yes?_

"I should try feeding you coffee," Steve said, and when Bucky's eyes narrowed, he waved a hand. "Never mind. Professor Erskine emailed back. He said I can come out and talk to him about the Warhorse."

_You woke me for that?_

"I could have left without telling you."

Bucky snorted his opinion of _that_ and Steve grinned. "I thought so. I need to go soon. He lives out in the country; it takes three buses to get out there."

_How long will that take?_

"About three hours. So come on."

_No._

"No?"

_No. You don't need a bus. You have me._

That mulish expression made an appearance, but Bucky surged across the living room and snatched Steve's shirt in his teeth. Carefully, he didn't want to catch skin, but he snapped down hard.

 _I'm the Warhorse. I was sent to you. If I can't fight for you at least let me carry you._ He let go and backed off. _Otherwise I'm useless._

Steve looked down at his shirt, damp where Bucky had clamped hold, then up at Bucky. He held out his hand. Bucky laid his ears back, but Steve made a little coaxing gesture and with a resigned sigh, Bucky stepped forward, dropping his nose into Steve's palm.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't think of it like that."

_No, you didn't._

Steve smiled and ran his other hand down Bucky's head, straightening his forelock. Bucky pressed his head against Steve's chest. "How would you feel about giving me a ride to this professor's house?"

_I guess so._

Steve huffed a quiet laugh. "You okay if we leave off the headgear?"

_It's called a bridle._

"The bridle, then. You okay if we leave it off?"

 _That's fine_ , Bucky said. Something in the way those words hit gave Steve the impression it was a little more than fine, but Bucky didn't give him time to think about it. _But_ y _ou need the saddle._

The saddle was sitting where he'd dragged it, propped in the corner, its tangle of straps and buckles pooling inside the flaps. It didn't look comfortable. With its tall front panel and its high curling back, it looked like the kind of chair rich people would pay tens of thousands of dollars to never sit in, only someone had decked it out in bondage gear. "You sure you have to wear it?"

_Yes. Without it you could slide off. I won't risk hurting you._

"I think getting hurt 'cause I fell off would be my fault, not yours."

Bucky didn't bother replying, but his flattened ears were clear enough.

Steve still wasn't sure about riding Bucky, but Bucky was right; that was his problem. He wasn't sure why strapping a saddle onto Bucky's back was sitting so uneasily in his gut when Bucky was right about that, too. He'd need it. The only horse he'd ever ridden was the carousel at Coney Island, and he hadn't liked it much. He'd been five and it'd been creepy, mouth open like it was screaming, eyes bulging like it was trapped in a nightmare, impaled on a pole, going around and around and around forever… 

He shook himself free of the memory.

Bucky's coat was still marked up from where he'd pulled the saddle off, like he was wearing a ghost of the straps that had wrapped under his belly and over his chest and around his head, like no matter what Steve did he could never get free of them.

"Hey," he said, pushing off the wall.

Bucky's head swung around, one ear flicking forward.

"Can I," he didn't know how to say it, so he rubbed his hand against Bucky's side. "I bought those brushes."

The skin on Bucky's back twitched.

"I could get those marks off? Before I try and put the saddle on."

His ears flickered, forward, back. _If you want._

It wasn't yes, but it wasn't no. Steve decided to take it. He went and got the brushes from the drawer he'd ended up shoving them in and brought them over. One was soft and one was hard, so he started with soft one. "Can I brush your face? I know the bridle's not going back on," it came out more forcefully that he intended, enough that Bucky's ears flicked, "but I remember how itchy you were."

Bucky lowered his head and Steve carefully went to work. It wasn't easy, not when Bucky's skin was so delicate he was worried about hurting him, but it helped when Bucky closed his eyes. Dust and sweat-dried hair came off as Steve ran the brush down the side of Bucky's face, around behind his ears, across his broad forehead and over his nose and Steve gradually erased the marks.

When Bucky's head was gleaming, his forelock a long flow that trailed down his nose, he swapped brushes and started working down his neck. It was thick, with a massive crest that arched down to his back, and Bucky's mane was nearly as thick. It took work to untangle it, but it was worth it for the waterfall of silky black that flowed over his shoulder when he was done.

Bucky's head was low, his eyes half closed, but his ears were following Steve as he bent down to brush under his belly. It was awkward, but the marks from the two thick straps that had held the saddle on soon disappeared, and he followed them back up around Bucky's barrel.

"If I brush your tail, are you gonna kick me?"

 _I'm not going to hurt you_.

Bucky's words in his head were soft, and he must be getting better at reading them, because he thought they felt a little hurt. "I know," he said. "Bad joke." Bucky snorted softly.

Brushed out, Bucky's tail almost touched the ground and Steve went back around to brush his sides, to work on his back, to brush down the whole long length of his body.

The saddle marks were long since gone, but Bucky was completely relaxed, soft under his hands, and until Bucky told him to stop, he was going to keep going. He didn't know when their breaths had synced. They were breathing in time, Bucky leaning into each brush stroke. His eyes were closed, his ears tilting to the sides. Steve wanted to lean into him, press his check against the warm soft coat.

He was starting to understand those girls in high school who'd been obsessed with horses.

A blast of music from a passing car broke the spell. Bucky lifted his head. Steve stepped back, turned away, set the brushes down and went to wash his hands. Magical warhorse or not, Bucky had been dirty.

_Steve?_

"Yeah, Bucky?"

He didn't answer for long enough Steve had time to dry his hands and turn around. Bucky was watching him, one storm grey eye fixed on his face, ears pointed forward. _Nothing._

"Then tell me how to put your saddle on."

* * *

In the end, Steve took a bus to a spot at the edge of the city, where a park met the national forest, and Bucky met him there.

After some discussion, neither of them had been sure they'd go unnoticed riding through the city. All it would take would be one person paying attention, watching for something strange, and they'd be seen.

It had been a good plan, since there was no one around to notice them but the birds, and the forest would take them nearly all the way to the Professor's house, but it did leave him with the slight problem of getting on. There was nothing here to stand on unless he wanted to climb a tree, and he didn't think he was going to make it onto Bucky's back from the ground.

Bucky solved the problem by folding gracefully to his knees. _Get on._

It caught his throat, or maybe his heart, seeing Bucky, with all his strength, his grace, his power, kneeling so he could carry him.

 _Steve, get on._ A quick snort. _This isn't comfortable_.

That snapped him out of it. "How?"

He listened, he nodded, and then he swung onto Bucky's back. It wasn't pretty, but he managed to do it without kicking him, getting his feet into the stirrups as Bucky lunged to his feet. It was like straddling an earthquake, or maybe a rocket.

Strange as the saddle looked, he understood its shape now that he was sitting on it. The weird curved back held him in place, the high front kept him from tipping forward. Between that and knowing Bucky wouldn't let him fall, he felt secure. He stretched his legs straight, his weight in the stirrups, following Bucky's instructions to lean back, and held tight to the high front panel with one hand, reaching over it to hold tight to Bucky's mane with the other.

Bucky started moving, long, slow, even strides, and Steve did his best to move with him. _Relax_ , Bucky said as he moved into a ground eating lope, still smooth as butter, shifting under Steve when his balance faltered. _I won't let you fall._

He did as Bucky asked. He relaxed, he sat back. It was easy, with Bucky in his head telling him what to do, and they ate up the miles. He wasn't sure how much time had passed or how far they'd gone when Bucky left the trees and turned onto a wide, flat path.

His ears went up, Steve heard, _Hang on tight,_ and the earthquake was suddenly a volcano, ready to explode.

"What?"

 _I mean it, Steve_. There was a wicked tinge to the words in Steve's head. _Hang on._

The world blurred. He hunched forward, knuckles aching from how tightly he was gripping the saddle, hoping he wasn't hurting Bucky because he had his legs clamped around his barrel so tight he didn't know whose circulation would get cut off first: his or Bucky's.

Bucky's head was high, his mane streaming past Steve, and Steve realised with a start that Bucky was enjoying this. One ear was curved forward, the other curved back, and he could almost feel joy radiating from him. Steve relaxed his death grip. He was safe in the saddle. Bucky wouldn't let him fall.

He sat taller as Bucky stretched into his full speed, the wind whipping around them, and caught the edge of Bucky's joy. It was flowing through him like the wind, like the pounding of Bucky's hooves, slamming into the ground, the landscape tearing past, the power of Bucky beneath him and the absolute faith that Bucky would not let him fall. He tipped his head back and laughed, long and loud.

Eventually Bucky slowed, gradual and so smooth Steve barely felt it. He did feel the ache in his hips, realised he was out of breath and felt how hard his heart was pounding. He pushed up on the front panel of the saddle, trying to ease his hips, and took long slow breaths while he recovered.

Bucky had slowed to a halt by the time he asked, "Are we here already?"

_Yes._

Steve pulled his bag off his back, dug his phone out, checked, and yes, they were only a short walk down a country road away. He put his phone back. "How fast are you?" he said, awed.

Bucky turned to face him. _I'm the Warhorse_ , he said with no inflection.

"You're amazing," Steve told him, rubbing his nose. Bucky huffed, too small to be a snort, his warm breath washing over Steve's hand. "Seriously, Bucky."

Bucky knocked him with his nose, but it was gentle. _Where am I going_?

* * *

The Professor's house was small and compact and somehow exactly what Steve had expected of a retired professor living in the country. He slid off Bucky's back before they reached it, bracing himself against his side when his legs seemed uncertain about walking.

"Here we go," he said under his breath and walked down the stone path, past beautiful gardens and lush, dense lawn studded with wild-flowers to knock on the door.

Professor Erskine was much older than he'd expected. Steve was no expert at guessing ages, but he had to be at least ninety, maybe older. He was slightly stooped, with deep wrinkles lining his face, and bald, silver hair barely clinging to the sides of his head, like it couldn't quite bear to let go. He was dressed fussily in an old-fashioned suit and he peered at Steve through wire rimmed glasses. "What can I do for you, young man?" he asked, his accent not quite the Daellander one he was getting used to.

"Professor Erskine? I'm Steve Rogers. You said I could come talk to you about the Warhorse?"

"An American," he said, then murmured, "That's extremely unexpected."

"I'm a Daellander as well if that helps. I mean, my mom was. She came from here, moved to New York after she met my dad. I inherited citizenship from her."

"I see." He pushed his glasses up his nose. "And is there any particular reason you want to know about the Warhorse?"

This felt like a test, one he couldn't afford to fail, but there was no way he could answer honestly and he was only good at lying in exactly two situations: when it mattered deeply and when it didn't matter at all. This fell somewhere in between and meant that he looked away, concentrating on the elaborately carved bell hanging next to the door. He probably should have rung that instead of knocking. "My mom loved the Warhorse. I grew up hearing stories about him."

"And _that's_ why you've ended up on the doorstep of a retired professor who specialised in early Daelland history, who's writing on the Warhorse was mostly a hobby?"

"Must have been a heck of a hobby. You're referred to in a lot of stuff."

He smiled, a gentle thing, but somehow pleased. "Mr Rogers—"

"Call me Steve."

"Steve, then. In my experience there are two types of people who find their way to my door. The first are students of Daelland history. The second are people with an interest in the Warhorse who have a, hmm, let's call it a unique perspective on the world around them. You don't seem to be either."

Steve kept his mouth shut.

"I always wondered if a third type would appear one day."

Again, Steve kept his mouth shut.

Instead of being offended by his silence, Professor Erskine said, "You know, it's a lovely day. Why don't we have tea in the garden and I'll tell you about the Warhorse."

The garden at the rear of the cottage was as beautiful as the one at the front, with a wide stone path leading into the trees. Bucky planted himself under the trees, standing tall and square, like he'd set himself on guard, and Steve carefully didn't look at him while he politely sipped his tea and listened to Professor Erskine speak.

"Like you, I'm not originally from here. German," he added. "I was just a child when my family escaped and Daelland took us in." He was silent, contemplating his tea, then he gave Steve a tiny smile. "That was 1933. As young as I was and as many years as it's been you'd think I'd have lost the accent, but no. A bit of it still clings on." He turned his teacup around in his wrinkled hands. "Do you know that some believe the Warhorse is why the Nazis didn't win?"

Steve's eyes involuntarily flicked to Bucky, standing in the shadows. When he looked back, the Professor was watching him closely, but he didn't comment. "He is why they knew the Nazis had created their deadly magic weapons in time to be ready for them, but in truth it's impossible to say what would have happened without him. Too many things make the shape of history." His eyes were distant. "But to a young Jewish boy, at that time, at that point in history, a legendary Warhorse who'd just saved the world makes an impression."

He cleared his throat. "Even here, though, you can't make the Warhorse your academic speciality, so I chose history. Specifically, the early history of Daelland. But I never forgot the Warhorse."

"Your hobby," Steve said quietly.

"Yes, but if you know how to look," his eyes twinkled suddenly, "and I promise you, I know how to look, he's woven throughout Daelland's history. I like to think of him as our horseshoe nail. Are you familiar with that saying?"

"I think I might have read it in school?" He racked his memory. "Battles being lost because no one planned properly, right?"

"Lack of planning, yes, but also bad luck, bad weather, the whims of fate. The smallest thing can change the course of history. So, the verse starts with a lost nail that in turn causes a lost horseshoe, the lost shoe causes the loss of the horse and it escalates as the rider is lost, then the message, then the battle, until finally the kingdom itself falls." He leaned forward. "You see? The Warhorse appears at history's turning points, he's the reason Daelland's rider was never lost, or the message, or the battle. The kingdom survived, all because of our horseshoe nail."

Bucky was still as stone, still as his bronze doppelganger that watched over the park. Only his mane and tail moved, drifting in the light breeze. His storm grey eyes were fixed on the Professor.

"How?" Steve asked. "How is that _possible_? How can he appear when and where he's needed?"

"Magic. Magic of a kind and a power that simply doesn't exist anymore. There are no records of his creation, no one who claimed responsibility, but that's typical of the time. Magickers didn't write their magic down, and quite forcefully kept others from doing so, to prevent their workings from being stolen." He set his tea aside and Steve gratefully did the same. "Would you like to know my pet theory?" he asked. "I've kept it out of my writing since I enjoy being a respected scholar and have no desire to be relegated to the crackpot annals. There's a few places I've hinted, but you'd need to know it's there to find it."

There was no reason for Steve's heart to be beating faster, but it didn't seem to have gotten the memo. "Sure," he said, deceptively casual, and leaned forward.

"I think the Warhorse was a person."

The whole world stopped, kind enough to allow him one moment for that to sink in. Then it spun around him, fast and unforgiving, the moment of dizziness when you step off a rollercoaster. "A person," he said and it was the click of tumblers falling into place.

"Mmmm. Specifically, a member of the royal family. A member of _the_ royal family." 

The way Bucky was staring at the Professor made Steve doubt horses weren't predators.

"I've written a paper explaining my theory. I believe the evidence is there, but it's one thing to share it in conversation and another to publish and destroy a lifetime's reputation. Let them find it after I die. They can publish it posthumously and argue about whether I was going senile."

Dragging his gaze away from Bucky, Steve said, "Tell me?"

"What do you know about the founding of Daelland?"

"Nothing."

"Then I'll keep this short. King Barne the First was a disillusioned Earl who'd spent years fighting a civil war that ended, from his perspective, with the wrong man on the throne. He refused to bend his knee to the false king, renounced his Earldom, and left. He wound up carving out his own kingdom with the help of his sons, the lesser nobles who'd followed him, and a large contingent of mercenaries who'd been expelled when the war ended. That kingdom became Daelland."

He gave Steve an expectant look and Steve nodded.

"King Barne the First's oldest son, Gareth, was our second king. It was his son, Barne the Second, that the Warhorse first appeared to, and his presence turned the tide of a battle that, if lost, would almost certainly have meant the end of the kingdom." He leaned forward. "It's King Barne's second son, James, however, that I find the most interesting. He's what started me down my little path, because he disappeared."

"What do you mean disappeared?" Steve glanced at Bucky, but the only sign he wasn't a Warhorse statue tucked in the shadows of Erskine's garden was the shiver of his skin.

"I mean exactly that. He disappeared. There are excellent records from that time, but there's nothing for Prince James. One moment he's there and the next it's as if he was plucked from history. Of course, it's possible that nothing survived, but given everything else we have, it's unlikely. There'd be something left." He retrieved his cup and sipped his tea. "Unlike everyone else, I think something was."

He seemed to be waiting for a response. Steve didn't have one to give.

After a moment, Erskine tipped his head. "Magic that changes a person, it can't be worked on someone unless they agree. Even the Nazis never managed to overcome that," he said, then shook himself a little. "That's what I think happened to Prince James. I think he chose to become Daelland's protector. I think he became the Warhorse."

Bucky made a sound like something being torn open. Steve's head whipped around. He was backing away, eyes red rimmed, teeth bared like a dog's.

He rose to his feet, hand outstretched. He didn't care about Erskine, didn't care what he thought, all he cared about was Bucky who looked like he was about to shatter.

Professor Erskine's, "I'd wondered…" was quiet, awed, and when Steve turned he saw the boy he'd been looking out from behind his eyes.

"I have to go."

"Of course," he said. His hand briefly touched Steve's, closed around it with a squeeze. "If there's anything I can do, you have only to ask."

He managed a nod, then he was running down the path that led out of the garden and into the woods, following where Bucky had gone.

  
* * *

Bucky ran blindly away, and every step made him angrier.

He didn't choose. He never _chose_. His trust was stolen and twisted and as Steve reached him, he reared, front hooves lashing the air, and came down hard, back legs kicking out.

Steve stopped and Bucky leapt forward, shouldering close until he was breathing in Steve's face. 

And he stopped. He couldn't fix it. He couldn’t make it right. That stupid old man saying he'd _chosen_ this, and he couldn’t tell Steve the truth. He backed away, teeth snapping in frustration.

"Bucky." Something in Steve's voice pulled him out of it, a thread of command, like he was being lifted and carried and there was a light in Steve's eyes that threatened to outshine the sun. "Why did what he said make you so angry?"

He half-reared, hooves slamming into the grass. _I can't answer that._

The light in Steve's eyes sharpened. "Can't or won't?"

_Can't._

Steve nodded slowly. "Bucky, before you were the Warhorse, were you human?"

Sudden hope bloomed. He held very still, like the magic was a stalking cat. _I can't answer that._

Shadows grew behind Steve's eyes. "You're human. You're—" His hands balled into fists. "I should have known. I should have figured it out when you could talk." Bucky could see an echo of what he'd seen at the library. Too much knowledge, too much understanding. Horror and pity and a growing anger. "Did you used to be Prince James?"

 _I can't answer that_ , he said and knew it was barely above a whisper.

"Bucky," Steve said, and swallowed hard before asking, "did you choose this?"

He wanted to shy from the question. His body tried, it had always tried, giving him what he asked of it, a good horse that would run for him until the death it could never find, but he fought it. He would not hide from this.

Nothing would change the truth of what had been done to him.

 _I can't answer that_ , he said, head high, defiant, as he answered all the same.

"Bucky." Steve's eyes _burned_. His voice was terrible as he said Bucky's name, as if it would shake the earth, bring the hills and the mountains crashing down.

The world shifted under his feet as Steve pressed a hand against his cheek and said, no _vowed_ , it could be nothing but a vow, and the ancient buried part of Bucky wanted to drop to his knees and swear fealty, "I don't care what it takes, I'll set this right. I won't leave you like this."

How had he ever thought Steve wasn't a warrior? He should be commanding armies. Bucky would follow him into battle. He'd follow him right into the mouth of hell. He shoved his head against Steve's chest and closed his eyes as Steve rested his forehead between his ears. "I swear, Bucky, if it takes me 'til the day I die."


	6. The Warhorse runs, the Warhorse kills

Steve tried to get hold of Sam Wilson again. He knew it was a longshot, but he'd seemed reasonable and things had just gotten a lot more serious. Maybe he'd listen now. By the time Steve managed to get through to someone who'd talk to him, he was informed Sam was no longer available. No, they couldn't put him through. No, they couldn't take a message. No, sir, I'm sorry, but we can't help you further.

He stared at the phone, knowing it probably wouldn't have helped even if he had been able to talk to him, then doubled down: he replied to Sam's email, asking him to please contact him. He knew it was a message in a bottle tossed into a bureaucratic ocean, but it couldn't hurt.

That done, he tossed his phone on the coffee table and tried to work out what to do next. Bucky was dozing in front of the window. Steve swallowed hard as he shifted his weight, sighed, ears twitching before he settled.

Objectively, he looked no different than he had this morning, but, watching him now, sun reflecting off his glossy coat, Steve couldn't see anything but a person. A human being, one who'd been— He really wanted to say enslaved. Bucky had been enslaved to serve Daelland. For _centuries_. And he hadn't even been allowed his own body, his own identity. They'd both been stolen when he'd been turned into the Warhorse.

Anger rose, choking him, made him want to punch something, put his fist through the wall if he had to just to get it out but he throttled it back. He needed to keep calm. He needed to think. He needed to plan, because they were racing a clock he couldn't see, invisible seconds ticking past, each one taking them closer to the moment Bucky would be ripped away. The Warhorse came when Daelland was threatened. When the danger passed, whether they'd stopped it or not, he'd be gone.

He had that long to get Bucky free.

Magic had done this to Bucky. It would have to be magic that broke him loose. Slowly he turned to stare at his mom's Warhorse figure, still sitting on the coffee table where he'd put it the night Bucky had appeared.

It was a place to start.

* * *

Noah, bartender at The Besotted Squirrel, stared at him from behind the bar like Steve had just suggested doing something obscene to his mother. Or maybe his mother's corpse. "You want to _what_?"

"Change someone. Change their body. Into something else." It was hard to be circumspect when you needed someone with enough magical training to break a centuries old spell that had cursed a prince into the country's legendary Warhorse, but he was trying.

"Look, I don't know how they do things in America, but that is not alright. We don't do that kind of thing here."

Steve cast desperately for something to allay the suspicions he could see crawling across Noah's face. "It's for me," he blurted out.

"Explain?"

"I want to be big," he lied. "Tall. Buff. Lots of muscles." He waved at himself. "It's not something I can exactly do on my own."

Noah's face softened. "Steve," he said. "No." He sighed. All he looked now was sad, and Steve would take it over the call to the police he was afraid had been about to happen. "Look, yeah, there are a few people around who could manage that kind of working, but you don't want that."

Steve held his eyes, refused to look away, and eventually he slumped. "I'll give you some names, some people I know are decent, but I want you to think about this. Talk to someone first."

When he passed Steve two business cards and a scrap of paper, Steve said, "Thanks," then added, because Noah had done him a favour he couldn't begin to understand, "I might not even do it. And I'll talk to someone first."

"That's all I can ask."

As they walked back to the apartment, the names safely tucked in his pocket, Bucky said, _There's nothing wrong with you._ He didn't look like he was paying attention to Steve, ears pricked forward as he tracked a passing car, but there was an intensity to his words Steve couldn't ignore. 

"You heard me talking to Noah?"

_I have good ears._

"I just said what I needed to get those names." Bucky gave an amused snort. "I know there's nothing wrong with me." He laughed quietly and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I used to think so, back when I was a kid. You grow up short and skinny and pretty sick, with a bunch of people itching to tell you everything wrong with you, and you're going to believe it even if you say you don't." He shrugged. "But eventually I figured out that there might be a bunch of things about me some people don't like, but this is who I am. It's me. Not everyone's gonna like it, but that's fine. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I'm perfect, but I'll be damned if I'm going to try and change just to make more people like me."

They walked in silence for another few blocks, the sidewalk giving over to the cobblestones of Steve's neighbourhood, then Bucky said, _I like who you are. Even if we can't break the magic, I'll always be happy I was sent to you._

He stopped walking. He had to. Head bowed, he stared intently at a cobblestone as he blinked hard, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. 

_Steve?_

"I like you, too, Bucky. I like you a whole hell of a lot." He lifted his head. They had the street to themselves; he wasn't sure he'd have cared if they didn't. "And if we can't break it, if you get taken away from me, you have to fight for yourself. You make them treat like you deserve. I know you can't tell them the truth, but you can make them treat you like a person. You have to show up. Doesn't mean you have to obey, and I know you can hurt them. If they won't treat you right, return the favour. Do whatever you have to." His fists were digging into Bucky's chest, Bucky's neck arched high above him, and he didn't know when he'd moved. "And I'm keeping your gear. It's never going back on. If you get taken from me, you're going naked. Bite anyone who tries to put a chunk of metal in your mouth."

 _It's called a bit_. He sounded stunned.

"Whatever it's called. Promise me. Promise you'll fight for yourself."

Bucky folded his head over Steve, pulling him close, and Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky's neck, hanging on tight. _I promise_.

"But I am going to figure out how to break it," he said into Bucky's neck. He held on a little longer, then stepped back. "And what's threatening the country." 

_And you should eat something._

"Nag."

_Hey, no horse jokes._

* * *

Decent people, it turned out, weren't a lot of help. But one of them was just not-decent enough to give him another name.

He spent the next two days—two days too long, too aware of time racing away—making contact with various people who claimed to work magic at a level he hadn't known was still practiced.

It was almost ten pm on the second day when Steve narrowed it down to two, intending to leave the final decision up to Bucky, who was currently off running through the city, when there was a knock at the door.

He set his laptop aside. Checking through the peephole showed him a man in a rumpled suit leaning tiredly on the doorframe. He glanced up at the peephole, one eyebrow raised. "If you're staring at me through the peephole, feel free to take your time. I'll just lean here in the hallway and take a little nap while you look your fill."

Steve recognised the voice. He unlocked the door and swung it open. "Sam Wilson."

"In the flesh." He looked Steve up and down. "And you must be Steve Rogers. Going to invite me in?"

Steve hesitated, because he didn't know. In the first flush of anger, overwhelmed with determination to set Bucky free, he'd tried to get hold of Sam simply because he was the only friendly official contact he'd had. Now, with that anger muted into cold determination, with plans of his own almost in place, he wasn't sure he wanted anything to do with Sam.

"Or you could just leave me standing in the hall." He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and flipped it open, identifying himself as Agent Samuel Wilson, Office of Royal Security. "If it helps, I'm here officially."

"How could that possibly help?"

Sam produced a folded-up paper from the pocked of his jacket, unfolded it, and held it out. It was the form Steve had so carefully filled out and emailed back. "Look familiar?"

Steve groaned. "Are you seriously following that up _now_? Isn't it after hours?"

"Justice never sleeps," Sam said, deadpan, and Steve gave him the look a line like that deserved. "And you asked me to get in touch. Look, I just need to clear some things up and this was the only time I had free. It won't take long."

Against his better judgement, Steve waved him in, shutting the door behind him. "Grab a seat," he said, pointing at the stools sitting under the kitchen counter. Sam sat, and Steve leaned on the wall, waiting.

The look Sam gave him was searching, like he was trying to take Steve apart and study the pieces. Finally, he said, "Why did you call me and say you had the Warhorse?"

"I didn't call you. I got put through to you."

Sam sighed. "You did send me this, though." He set the form on the counter. "And it's clear enough. Were you trying for a prank? Some kind of YouTube thing?"

Before Steve could cobble together a response, Sam leaned forward, expression hard. "Or were you trying to pull a scam? Because the people you've been talking to over the past couple of days, that's what a bunch of them have tried to do. A few of them are still at it, trying to sell magic snake oil they say can save the king. We're not gonna fall for it, but that hasn't stopped them from sliming their way out of the woodwork like leeches and every time they do, we have to check. We have to make sure it's nothing but lies and false hope, and it seems to me," he slammed a finger down on the form Steve had so carefully filled out, "it seems to me a fake Warhorse would be right up their alleys."

It was so unexpected, so completely out of left field, he barely reacted when Bucky suddenly appeared, stepping out of thin air to flatten his ears at an oblivious Sam and ask, _What's going on?_

Steve raised a hand, asking for him to wait, and Sam glared at him.

"Is that what you've been doing, Steve? Is that your game? Are you working with them? Going to turn some nag into something that'll trick us into believing it’s the Warhorse? Because I swear to god, if you're part of this—" He abruptly stopped and very visibly brought himself under control, anger disappearing under a professional mask, but Steve had seen more than the anger. He'd seen grief. And because he'd seen it, he couldn’t get angry in turn. He knew what it felt like to stand by and watch someone die. He knew that anger. That helplessness.

"Sam," he said quietly, meeting his eyes. "I'm not part of that. I would never be part of anything like that."

Sam let out a long breath. "Then why? I need you to explain to me why you're contacting these people, because right now all the evidence is pointing that way."

Bucky took the answer out of his hands.

Nothing changed for Steve. But he knew from the way his eyes went wide and his jaw dropped, for Sam Wilson _everything_ changed.

The Warhorse had appeared.

Steve tried to imagine it from his perspective: the sheer _absurdity_ of a horse in someone's living room, and not just any horse, the _Warhorse_ , the size and strength and danger of him as he paced to stand beside Steve.

He couldn't help smiling just a little at Sam's poleaxed expression. "I told you he wasn't a donkey."

Sam slowly rose, like a man in a dream, and walked to stand in front of Bucky. "Why are you here?" he whispered, in a voice torn between awe and fear. He raised a hand, let it fall when Bucky pulled back. Sam's eyes sharpened. "The king's dying. I thought Riley was crazy when he talked about the king like he mattered, you know? But now I get it and he's dying. Is that why you're here? To save him?"

Steve's heart clenched. Bucky bowed his head and said, words as clear as summer's day, _I'm sorry. I can't save your king._

Sam froze, eyes darting around the room. Then he said, too casually, "How do you tell if you're going crazy?"

"You're not," Steve said gently, resting his fingers against Bucky's cheek. "He can talk."

"He can talk. He can… The Warhorse can talk."

"Yeah."

Sam rubbed a hand over his head and laughed the laugh of a man who's walked right up to the edge and peered over. "Left that out of the stories, didn't they?" he said. "That seems like a hell of an oversight." 

He would never be given a more perfect opening, and he didn't know whether to take it. The Warhorse was part of the country Sam served, had _chosen_ to serve, since just like him Sam wasn't born here. The Warhorse was part of Daelland's history, part of its _identity_. Faced with losing that, what would he choose?

He tangled his fingers in Bucky's mane and Bucky swung his head around to brush his cheek with the tip of his nose. _Your choice, Steve_ , he said _. Whatever you decide, I trust you._

The weight of it was crushing, but he'd never felt so light.

"Sam? They left out a lot more than that. You might want to sit down." 

It took Sam two tries to get the stool under him, and he didn't take his eyes off Bucky while he did it. He didn't interrupt while Steve explained, barely keeping his voice from shaking with intensity, that Bucky was Prince James, second son of King Barne the first, founder of the Kingdom of Daelland, who was forced to become the Warhorse, who'd been trapped as the Warhorse for centuries, but his changing facial expressions spoke volumes.

They didn't shift from humouring the crazy person until he mentioned Professor Erksine's paper, and then he said, "Say it again. Say it all again. From the beginning," and Steve did.

"Can you, and I can't believe I'm saying this to a horse, even if you are the Warhorse, corroborate any of that?"

 _I can't,_ Bucky replied, and his words were flat and dead.

Sam's eyes were sharp when he said, "Can't or won't?" and Steve could have kissed him.

_Can't._

He turned to Steve. "Can you get me a copy of the Professor's paper?"

"I think so."

It was easy to find his phone number, even if Steve felt guilty about calling him so late. Surely such an old man would be in bed… No, he was wide awake. And he'd be happy to send Steve a copy of his paper. As it happened, he'd dug it out after Steve had left so abruptly. Just in case. "And let me know how it comes out, if you can."

"I will, Professor, thank you."

"No need, Steve. May I ask, though, if you can answer... Was I right?"

"Hang on." He pressed the phone to his shirt. "Can I tell him?" Bucky nodded. "Yes," he said, bringing the phone back to his ear, and discovered he couldn’t let it stand, the Professor thinking Bucky had chosen this. "But he didn't—"

A nudge from Bucky interrupted him. _No._ _Let him believe._

"Uh, nothing. I'm sorry, Professor, I need to go."

"I understand. Steve." There was a long silence. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He hung up and Bucky shoved his head against Steve's arm and breathed shakily until a ding from Steve's phone announced the arrival of an email.

He opened it, opened the attachment, scanned it, then passed it to Sam. "Here."

Sam read, thumb sliding over the screen as he slowly scrolled, brow furrowing. Occasionally he glanced up at Bucky. Eventually, he passed the phone back to Steve. 

"I sent that to myself. And I'm reserving judgement until someone else looks at you," he told Bucky, then to Steve, "But you understand this is bigger than him. The Warhorse shows up when the country's in danger. Whatever else is true, that's true, too. And I have to deal with that."

He didn't snap. He didn't yell. His anger was the slow creep of magma flowing through his veins. "He's bled for this country for centuries and it was never his choice. And still, for all this time, for _centuries_ , he's fought for it, over and over again, and you—" He snapped his mouth shut before he said something he couldn’t take back. "If you won't set it right, I will." 

Sam held out both hands. "I never said we weren't going to do something. But it's not that simple."

"It _needs_ to be simple. Because we're running out of time."

"Okay." Sam stood up. "Can you get him to the castle without being seen?"

 _You haven't seen us yet_ , Bucky said, and Sam twitched.

"Not going to get used to that in a hurry," he muttered. "Then come to the front gates, talk to the guard. You," he said to Bucky, "need to do that trick where you can't be seen. They'll let Steve in, bring him to me." He gave Bucky a dubious look. "I'm not sure you'll fit down some of the corridors."

 _I'll come to you. There's nowhere you can take Steve that I can't find him._ It was almost, not quite, a threat.

"Noted," Sam said. As he left, he added, "Don't be long."

* * *

Bucky was waiting when Steve stepped onto the sidewalk, and he went to one knee so Steve could mount.

Steve didn't. Steve stayed where he was, half-cast in shadow, obviously reluctant. There hadn't been time for reluctance on their return trip from Professor's Erskine's, Bucky half-shoving Steve into his saddle to carry him home.

Now Bucky wore no saddle and the truth of him—who he was, that this had been done to him—was all Steve could see.

Steve stepped back. "I can walk. Or the buses are probably still running."

It hurt. Unexpectedly it hurt.

He rose to his feet, head high, breeze slipping through his mane as he faced Steve, and said, _You're the only one I've ever wanted to carry._ He didn't say: You're the only thing in all these long centuries I've chosen for me. He wouldn't say: Please don't take it away.

Somehow, Steve heard both. He came forward, offering both hands, palms up, and Bucky dipped his head, pressing his nose into them as Steve leaned forward, forehead resting between his eyes. Bucky could feel his smile. "Okay."

He snorted lightly as Steve gave him space and gracefully folded one leg, dropping to one knee. Steve lay over his back, then scrambled up, throwing one leg over and sliding securely into place. Bucky waited until he was holding his mane with both hands, until he felt secure, and then he stood. 

The streets were quiet and dark as Bucky took the backways, the side roads, their path leading them ever closer to the castle. Steve was moving with him, no saddle between them, legs warm against his sides, and for the first time in forever he felt peace.

The castle was looming ever larger in his mind, but whatever this night brought, right now, in this moment with Steve, he was at peace.

He let Steve off close to the gates, the silhouette of the castle framed by the night, reluctantly keeping to the shadows as he was escorted inside. He waited, watching the unchanging stars, visible here, away from the brighter lights of the city, counting down the time and when he'd waited enough, he stepped through the world to Steve's side.

And into an argument.

"I'm telling you, it was the Warhorse," Sam said.

"And I'm telling you, come here and let me check you." A slender redhead was trying to touch an obviously annoyed Sam while he backed away from her.

Steve was perched on a couch in the middle of a large, cluttered room, shelves overflowing with papers and equipment, a table along the wall lined with computers. His back was to Bucky. "If you wait a minute, he'll be here and you can see for yourself."

Bucky snorted.

Steve turned around. "Good timing," he said, sounding relieved. "Do you mind?"

He gave the little twist that made himself visible and found himself facing a gun.

"Natasha!" Sam said and Bucky sighed.

Her eyes narrowed, but she put it away. "Someone must have put something in the water."

"That's what I thought when I first saw him," Steve said. "But he's real. He's Prince James. Someone did this to him against his will and we need to get him free. Can we move through the not-believing part pretty fast? We're on a deadline here, and I don't know what it is."

Steve's voice was tense and when Bucky put his nose over the back of the couch, Steve wrapped his hand around it.

 _I can't say what Steve said. If I try, I won't be able to. But I am the Warhorse_ , he told them all. _And_ , he moved cautiously, testing the words in his head before he sent them on, wondering how far he could push the magic, _Steve's not the sort of person who lies._

She stared at him, then turned to Sam, who shrugged helplessly. "Yes, he talks. I believe them. I believe all of it. You read Erskine's paper."

"Anything can be convincing if you cite the right sources," she replied but her head was tilted, her eyes slightly unfocussed as she stared at Bucky.

He tossed his head, pawed the thick carpet.

"What do you see?" Sam asked.

"There's something…" She frowned, crossing the carpet and rounding the couch, reaching to touch him and he skittered backwards, out of her reach, as Steve hopped over the back of the couch and stood between them.

"What are you doing?" Steve asked.

"This is why I brought you here," Sam said soothingly. "Agent Romanov is our magic specialist. She's the best I've ever seen."

"The best you'll ever see," she corrected. "But I need to touch him."

Steve glanced over his shoulder. "Is that okay with you?"

He flicked his ears forward, back, because no, he didn't want anyone touching him, but he moved forward to stand beside Steve. Her hand was delicate as she placed it on his shoulder.

"This is brutal," she said after a minute, eyes narrowed. "And it's definitely of Daelland. It feels like Daelland. Who did this to you?"

Bucky laid his ears flat.

"I don't think he can answer that," Steve said.

"I'm not surprised. If I put a working like this on someone, I'd make sure they couldn’t tell anyone, either." Her hand fell. "Whoever it was, they were related. The working's blood-locked." At the collection of blank looks, she asked, "That wasn't self-explanatory?"

"No," Sam said.

"It means a blood relative did the working, or was involved in the working, and they made sure it would take another blood relative to release it."

Bucky wanted to vanish as all three looked at him. He wanted to hide. He didn't. He lifted his head and kept his eyes on Steve. 

"Can I just be clear about we're saying?" Sam said. "We're saying that he," he pointed at Bucky, "is Prince James, son of Daelland's first king, that he was turned into the magical Warhorse that's been showing up and saving the country for, what, nine hundred years or so? That he was turned _against his will_ and it was his family that did it?"

After a thoughtful moment, she said, "Yes."

"We can't just take him to the king," Sam said wearily.

"Peggy," she said.

"Who?" Steve asked.

"Princess Margaret," said Sam. "If she agrees, she can get you to the king."


	7. Through fire and blood he'll see you true

Steve had never met a princess. He'd met a governor once, accidentally, at a protest. There hadn't been a lot of formality. Hostility, but no formality.

He had a feeling this was going to be different. He was in an actual castle, for one, and the age of it was seeping into his bones. Bucky had his head down, tucked against his chest, all four legs braced like he was expecting someone to strike him or ask him to fight a war.

Sam was gone, trying to get them in to meet the princess at he didn't even know how late. There were no clocks in the room, and he didn't want to get his phone out. Sam had left them with Agent Romanov. She was leaning against the wall, apparently not paying them any attention, but Steve had his doubts.

He didn't care. Let her watch. "Hey," he said softly, curling his fingers around Bucky's ear. Their ride over had broken something, he didn't know what, but the slight hesitation he'd felt reaching for Bucky, touching Bucky, knowing he was a person, was gone. Bucky lifted his head and Steve caught it, stepped closer, and pulled it against his chest. Bucky leaned into him with a sigh and he rested his chin on his forelock.

Steve searched for something, _anything_ , to say, and found nothing. What could he say? They were so close. Everything hinged on what came next. Bucky knew that as well as he did. Steve had made this choice for him and he held onto Bucky, hoping hadn't chosen wrong.

"We're up," Sam said as he opened the door. "And she's coming to us."

Agent Romanov's eyebrows lifted. "She's coming down here."

"I'm very convincing."

"You're a lunatic," she said fondly. "Her security detail?"

"We're in the castle and she's meeting us." He gave a shrug that was only slightly uncomfortable. "She's coming on her own." 

Steve straightened. "Is there something I'm supposed to do when I meet a princess? Bow or something?"

 _In my day you'd go to one knee_ , Bucky said, and Steve knew he'd said it to everyone by the pained look that crossed Sam's face.

"Don't do that," Sam said.

"Just be respectful," Agent Romanov added. "Princess Margaret doesn't have a lot of patience for pointless, overblown formalities. Her words," she said, tone amused, "not mine." 

They waited and before long there was a knock at the door. Sam opened it and a tall brown-haired woman swept in. Steve couldn’t help thinking her clothes were too _ordinary_ for a princess, no gowns or tiaras in sight, but she was just as beautiful as Disney had led him to expect. He didn't know if it was something endemic to royalty or unique to her, but she had _presence_. As impossible as it was, the room felt larger _and_ smaller with her in it. The only thing he could compare it to was Bucky: power and grace and controlled strength and as she strode into the room he had no doubt she'd be just as capable as Bucky at ending any of them.

Bucky shifted, hooves shuffling on the carpet, as her gaze settled on him and her eyes burned with an emotion Steve couldn’t place. He fought the urge to step between them.

Her gaze never wavered as she spoke, the soft-burred Daellander accent so crisp it was almost standing at attention. "You've never been one for pranks, Sam, but just this once I thought you might have given in to temptation."

"No, Your Highness."

She looked briefly pained. "Sam, we've talked about this."

"Sorry, Ma'am."

"That's slightly better. Introduce me, please."

"This is Steve Rogers," Steve bowed his head, "and this is," Sam hesitated, then pushed forward, "the Warhorse, who we think is also a nine-hundred-year-old prince, give or take a decade or two. Who can talk." He gestured at Bucky.

 _Your Highness_ , Bucky said, bowing his long neck, and Steve could have wept at the tentative hope in his words.

"You can talk."

_I can._

"There's nothing in the histories about that."

Bucky swivelled his ears back, jaw working, then said, _No one would listen. I tried, in the early days. I tried again and again and no one would listen, so I stopped._

Steve wrapped his hand in Bucky's mane.

"Until now," she said, sharp eyed.

_Steve listened._

She nodded, gaze raking Steve, then said, "Natasha?"

She glanced at Steve, and for one second he saw—knew she must be letting him see—a brief flash of...warmth? Reassurance? Whatever it was, hope bubbled in his heart.

"You know my background," she said to the princess, and it wasn't quite a question.

"I do," the princess replied, moving to lean on the back of the couch. "After Alec—" She stopped, and for a moment she was just a weary woman, shadowed by loss. She blinked, straightened, and it passed as she continued: "After the accident, when it was decided there had to be constant security and drivers and all the rest, I was briefed. Not just on you, on all of you, everyone in Royal Security," she added to Sam, who didn't look surprised. Neither did Agent Romanov.

She _did_ look surprised when the princess went on, telling her very frankly, "That's why I asked for you to be assigned to the castle. Truthfully, I wanted you for my personal detail, but I knew you were far too skilled to waste on following me around." Agent Romanov's surprise was gone like it had never been, but the princess had obviously seen it and answered the question she hadn't asked. "Because you chose us," she said. "Who could possibly be a better choice than that?"

Steve didn't understand what they were talking about, but Sam was obviously pleased, beaming at Agent Romanov like a mama duck with one duckling. For her part, she blinked once, the only sign she'd been affected, then she turned to face Steve.

"As I was saying," she said. "My background. I was sent to spy on Daelland. I changed my mind." It took Steve a second to process what she was saying, since she was giving it all the weight of going to the store to buy milk. _Spying. She's a spy._ Was _a spy. Okay._ "I defected because of you."

Steve realised she wasn't talking to him at all. She was talking to Bucky.

Bucky's ears curved uncertainly, tilting to the sides.

"Not you, obviously, because you didn't exist." Her mouth quirked. "A magical Warhorse? The idea was ridiculous. But people believed in you. I decided I wanted to see what it was like to live somewhere that believed in fairy tales," she said. "I never thought I'd be wrong."

"I know how you hate that," the princess said dryly.

"Well, it happens so rarely," she replied lightly, but her tone was serious when she said, "But it's happened now. That's the Warhorse. I'd stake my life on it. And someone made him out of a magical working like nothing I've never seen."

Steve wanted to hug her.

"But is he the prince?" the princess asked.

"I don't know. The magic feels like Daelland and it's blood locked, but that's all I can tell you for sure."

"My gut says yes," Sam said. "And that Professor's paper agrees."

The princess nodded. "And you can't tell me who you are," she said to Bucky. 

Bucky tried. Steve could see what it cost, sweat blooming on his coat, body shaking as he tried to force the words out. But they wouldn't come, Steve knew they wouldn't come, and he couldn't keep watching.

"Stop." He caught Bucky's nose, drawing his head down, and stepped forward. "Your Highness, Ma'am, he can't. He _can't_. He can tell you he can't if you want to hear it, but that's all." He took a deep breath, knowing this was going to sound callous, cruel. "And I'm sorry, I know the king is," he stumbled over _dying_ , "sick, but this is his only chance. He didn't choose this and he deserves to be free." 

"Yes he does." Her words rang through the room, through Steve, and he felt them echo through Bucky, trembling under his hand.

"Does that…?" he said when Bucky stayed silent. 

"I believe you," she said. "But even if I doubted, it would be wrong not to try."

* * *

The halls had been cleared of the few people still around in the small hours of the morning. Steve was walking beside him, one hand on his shoulder, as they followed Sam and Natasha to the sick room of a king.

Bucky couldn't stop the fear. Even with Steve beside him, even with Steve's touch, he was afraid. He knew the passages of this castle too well. Even though they looked different, smooth white walls and paintings and carpet and different doors, he knew it.

And he was being led to meet a king.

His body was here, pacing beside Steve, but he was fighting memory that wanted to drag him back to shackles and a stone floor.

He shook his head. This wasn't that. This was freedom, maybe, but he couldn’t think of that, either. Hope was as deadly as fear.

Steve's fingers slipped through his mane, tangling to tug gently. "Okay?" he asked softly.

 _No,_ he answered honestly, and Steve leaned in to bump against his shoulder, the warm press of his body helping to ground him.

"I'll be here." It was soft, just loud enough for Bucky to hear, but resolute. Solid as stone. The truth of it resonated through him and he lifted his head, ears curving forward. Hope might be as deadly as fear, but with Steve by his side, maybe he could risk it.

"We're here," Natasha said, bringing their strange parade to a stop outside an imposing wooden door.

Sam lifted his hand to knock, then stopped with his knuckles resting on the wood. "Be gentle," he said without turning around, then tapped lightly. Princess Margaret opened it, and Bucky got his first look at the king.

He was lying in bed, propped up, surrounded by various machines that beeped and flashed. He was gaunt, hollow cheeked, and his white hair was thin and sparse. Bucky could smell the sickness on him, but his grey eyes were clear and bright.

"The Warhorse," he said, and for all that his voice shook slightly, Bucky could hear the strength under it. "When I was a child I always hoped I'd see you. When I was grown I prayed I never would. I knew what you could mean for my country." He reached out a trembling hand. "I never dreamt what my country had done to you."

Bucky walked to his bedside and knelt, bowing his head when the hand came to rest between his ears. "Let's make it right. Peggy, my dear, would you do the honours? I don't think I can manage."

"Of course." She was carrying a small blade. Bucky made himself hold still, skin shivering, but she reached past him to take the king's hand. She bit her lip as she pressed the edge of the blade to his skin and it parted like water at the barest touch, blood welling in beads of red.

She turned to Bucky and he could feel the fear rising again, but then Steve was there, taking the blade from her, and his other hand was curved around his nose and he was calm again. "Where?" he asked and then he was slicing Bucky's cheek and he barely noticed the small pain as the princess guided the king's hand forward, mingling their blood. 

Natasha stepped forward. "I'm going to break the working now. Okay?"

He barely got out, _Yes_ , before her magic rose, howling down on him, hot as a firestorm, and he felt the horse melting away as the world went white.

He was left gasping on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. Steve hit his knees beside him, hands holding him, grabbing him, and he flung himself into Steve's arms.

His wrists stung from the shackles that had chained him down. His back still ached from the long, long ride on a mare dead for centuries. He was wearing the thick hose, socks, and long linen shirt he'd gone to sleep in. He'd been restored to exactly what he'd been. He pressed closer to Steve and Steve held him tighter, hands fisted in his shirt.

"James." The king's quiet voice caught him. Reminded him they weren't alone. They were in a room surrounded by strangers and he didn't have a weapon.

No one here would hurt them, he told himself. Convinced himself. Made himself believe.

He scrubbed at his face. Steve pulled up his shirt and wiped the blood off his cheek then caught his face in both hands. "I won't leave you," he whispered, fierce as his hold had been.

Bucky nodded and stood. The king held out his hand and Bucky took it, kneeling at his bedside. This man wasn't his king—but _his_ king had betrayed him; even dying, this one had found the strength to set him free. Bucky would give him every ounce of respect he had to give. "James," he said again.

"Please call me Bucky," he asked, because James in the mouth of a king sent him back to a cold stone floor and a man who'd been his father and his king and had betrayed both.

"Bucky, then." There was a small smile, but it faded. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what was done to you. I'm sorry it's taken so long to set it right."

"It's not your fault. It was my father, not you." Saying it, giving voice to the words he'd been forbidden to speak, was like lancing a wound. "He tricked me, and he trapped me, and he set me to guard the kingdom."

He heard Steve swear, quickly cut off, heard the others react, but he didn't take his eyes from the king.

There was sorrow on his face, sorrow and anger, and he reached for Bucky with his other hand. "Your father is the reason I'm king today." A tiny smile. "Although not for much longer," he added, but it had no bitterness, just acceptance and a shadow of regret. Bucky gently squeezed his hand, aware of how fragile it was. "My grandmother used to tell me that if we're kings and queens because of the kings and queens that came before us, we don't get to choose what they pass down. We take everything, and that includes responsibility for everything they did wrong. It's up to us to put the past to right."

The words struck home like a well-shot arrow. "My father would have said that the point of being king is to rule." He felt strangely at peace. "I guess that means the family must have married well." The king's eyes crinkled at the edges. "But you did set it right. You did," he insisted when it looked like the king would protest. "You set me free. All of you," he looked around the room, three strangers watching with varying degrees of horror and concern, and Steve… He had to drag himself away from Steve's eyes, too dark, too deep, or drown in them. "Any debt has been paid."

* * *

"Okay—" Sam frowned. "What should _I_ call you?"

"Bucky," Bucky said.

"No horse jokes," Steve said around a yawn. 

The sun was rising, visible through a window as they walked down yet another castle passage. The princess and Natasha had stayed behind when they'd left with Sam, and Bucky wasn't sure where they were going. At this point, he was too tired to ask.

"Can I ask why Bucky, though?" Sam said, gesturing them down a corridor.

"I was the Earl of Buchanan." It was the easiest explanation, and at its most basic it was true. It was where _Bucky_ had come from. It wasn't why he'd chosen it.

"Huh. That's not around anymore."

"It's okay, I wasn't going to ask for it back."

Sam grinned at him and stopped outside a door. "Here we go. Get some sleep, Bucky. Steve, if you come with me, I'll get a car to take you home."

Bucky's heart froze, but eased at Steve's instant, "No."

Sam lifted an eyebrow.

"I stay with Bucky."

He looked between them, then shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'm too tired to argue. Room's fully stocked, there should be pyjamas and clothes in half a dozen different sizes, but if you need anything, you can call down. If you need me… Don't need me. I've got about three more hours of work before I can get any shut-eye. Don't go wandering. If you do need me, someone will be able to find me."

The room was lush, with two huge beds and elegant furniture and Bucky didn't care. He was weary beyond reckoning. He sat on the end of one of the beds, oddly reluctant to lie down.

"Come on." Steve walked over to stand in front of him and held out his hand. "I want to show you something."

Bucky touched the tips of his fingers to the back of Steve's hand. He could feel the slight roughness of Steve's skin, the bump of his knuckles, as he ran his fingers over his hand. He curled his fingers, pressing his fingertips into Steve's palm. He brought his other hand up and folded it over Steve's, then leaned forward and pressed his head against their joined hands, breathing slowly. He suddenly wanted to panic. He suddenly wanted to run. Steve stroked his hair, fingers catching on the tangles left from a long journey he'd never taken the time to clean up from.

"You're okay, Bucky," he said softly. "You're safe. You're you."

He choked back a sob. Steve pulled him forward and he buried his face in Steve's stomach, holding tight to his hand, and _let go_. He cried until he didn't think there were any tears left in him, shoulders shaking, but Steve never faltered, held him close and safe, and eventually they slowed. Stopped. Left him leaning against Steve, breathing slow and even as Steve ran a hand over his hair.

When he started to sit up, Steve pulled back and crouched in front of him. He brushed Bucky's hair off his face, tucked it behind his ear, briefly cupped his cheek and Bucky leaned into it.

"Come on." He stood, tugged Bucky to his feet, and Bucky followed, because he'd follow Steve anywhere. They ended up in a bright room that opened off the main room. "I want to introduce you to indoor plumbing. It's gonna change your life," he said solemnly, and Bucky laughed.

"Because nothing else has happened that would do that." 

Steve bumped his shoulder and proceeded to show him the wonders of indoor plumbing. Bucky flushed the toilet, turned the sink on and off, and then held his hand under the warm spray of the shower. "Steve, I love indoor plumbing."

"Told you. Get in. I'll go find you some clothes. Uh, maybe be careful taking those off. They probably belong in a museum." 

He looked down at what he was wearing. "Really?"

"Really, Bucky."

He'd long since given up doubting Steve, so he was careful when he got undressed, folding his clothes and setting them neatly aside before climbing under the warm spray. It stung his scraped wrists and he lifted them to study the marks. They weren't deep. If he hadn't fought the shackles, he wouldn't have been marked at all. He rubbed one, then the other. He was happy to have them; glad he could look at them and know he'd fought.

Bucky let his hands fall and tipped his head forward under the water. It soaked his hair and it fell to either side of his face like curtains. Like a mane. He smiled a little and pushed it back with his fingers. He could do that now, run his fingers through his hair. Run his fingers over his skin and down his chest and his sides and over his body because he had his body back. Fingers and hands and feet and toes. It felt like a dream.

He grabbed the soap Steve had showed him. It smelled like a flower he didn't recognise and turned into gentle foam as he rubbed it over his skin. He washed every inch, taking his time, finding every scar, every mark, every familiar piece of himself that was just as he'd been before.

He couldn't stop himself from running a finger down his torso, where he'd been sliced opened from ribs to belly, guts spilling onto the ground, probing, trying to feel _anything_ , but the skin was smooth. It was smooth over his left shoulder where his leg had been hacked almost clean off his body. He checked everywhere he'd taken wounds that would have killed a normal horse and found nothing.

His wandering hands grazed the cut on his cheek, and he stilled. Steve had carefully wiped the blood off his face, but that blood hadn't come from the cut Steve had made. He'd given that cut to the Warhorse. This mark, the one under his hand, the one that had bled down his cheek, had come from his father.

He tipped it into the spray and closed his eyes. Like the marks on his wrists, it was shallow. Like them, it would heal quickly enough. And as fresh as it was, it was also centuries and centuries old.

He opened his eyes, turning to let the water pour down over his shoulders, his heart suddenly beating wildly. He was _free_. Steve had set him free and he had to fight the near-overwhelming urge to leap out of the shower and grab hold of him and hang on as tight as he could. 

He'd also, Bucky discovered when his heart calmed down and the urge passed, brought him clothes to change into: soft pants and a soft shirt, all in a deep shade of blue.

When he came out of the bathroom, warm, clean, dry, and dressed, damp hair curling around his face, Steve was in the bed closest to the door wearing similar clothes. "Feel better?"

"How did you know that would help?"

"A shower always helps." He yawned, wide enough his jaw cracked. "So does sleep." He gestured at the other bed. "Hop in and I'll turn out the light."

Steve was right, sleep was dragging at him like a rough hand on the reins, but he hesitated with his hand on the quilt, long enough Steve's eyes sharpened.

"Last time I fell asleep in this castle," Bucky said to the bed, "I woke up in shackles and my father turned me into the Warhorse."

Steve considered that, then flipped his bedclothes back in invitation. "Anyone tries to take you, Bucky..." The promise of hell flared in Steve's eyes, then they were calm again, welcoming, his voice soft as he promised, "It's never going to happen."

There was nothing even in all Bucky's long centuries that could make him doubt Steve.

Steve's bed dipped under his knee as he climbed in. It was easily big enough to hold them both with room to spare and as he stretched out, Steve pulled the covers up. The corner of Steve's mouth curled as he tucked them carefully around Bucky's shoulders, but he didn't say anything, just leaned off his side of the bed and turned off the light. Bucky felt him lie back down.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. He could hear Steve breathing beside him. It was quiet and slow, but Bucky didn't think he was asleep. The urge from before returned, softer and less urgent, but his hands curled with it. His body ached with it. He didn't think he moved, but Steve rolled to face him.

"Everything okay?" he asked, soft-voiced in the darkness.

"Yes."

He could feel Steve eyeing him, then a hand closed around his arm. Long strong fingers curled against his skin and he breathed deep, because it felt like they were curling around his heart. Steve shifted closer. Bucky felt poised like the moment before plunging into a gallop, then Steve was tugging him forward and Bucky wrapped his arms around him, half turning so Steve was lying across him, and held on tight, burying his face in Steve's hair.

"You're okay," Steve said, wriggling a little to settle his head on his chest. "You're safe. You're you." The same words he'd said before, and they were a balm, flowing through him as Steve tucked an arm around him.

"You don't mind?" He spread one hand wide on Steve's back.

"No, Bucky." Steve turned his head to look up at him, sharp chin resting on his chest. His eyes were deep pools in the darkness, his face barely visible, but Bucky could see his mouth move in a smile. "I don't mind."

He held him a little tighter and let his eyes drift shut. Steve was a warm weight, solid and real in his arms, and he could finally sleep.

It was late afternoon by the time Bucky woke up. Steve was sitting cross-legged next to him, reading on his phone, one hand resting on his shoulder. He closed his eyes again to feel Steve's touch. When he opened them, Steve had set his phone down and was watching him.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"Starving."

Castle staff brought them food, along with the message that Sam had asked them to stay put for the time being. Bucky was happy to comply. His unease with the castle was wearing away the longer he was in it with Steve, like he was a spooking horse and Steve was training him not to be afraid.

Maybe he should come up with a better analogy, one that didn't paint him as a horse. But right now, even that didn't sting.

He'd half expected food to seem strange after so long—and it was, the food itself like nothing he'd ever eaten—but eating itself felt like it had all those centuries ago. Maybe it was a last, lingering effect of the magic that had kept anything from seeming strange. Or maybe it was that for this body, _his_ body, his last meal had been a day or so ago, when he and the mage had stopped at a travellers' inn for a quick meal to keep them going for the last push to the castle.

To this castle. This castle that he was sitting in with Steve. This castle that he knew could never again be home. His gaze caught on Steve, his heart lurched, clumsily shifting gaits as it beat faster, and he distracted himself by saying, "Tell me about something?"

Steve folded one leg under him and propped his head on his hand. "What do you want to know?"

They were sitting on the elegant couch, food long since eaten. The wall across from them held oil paintings, rich and lush: people on horses, men with hounds and hunting birds, and a woman with a steely look in her eyes and a giant dog by her side.

"Anything. Tell me about anything."

He leaned his head on the back of the couch and listened as Steve told him about growing up in a place called New York. It drew his own stories out of him, carefully chosen, because too many were too harsh, and he didn't want to bring that kind of pain into this moment with Steve.

When night fell, dinner came with porcelain plates traced with gold and silver cutlery and linen napkins on a small table the castle staff had insisted was necessary for the evening meal. When they were finished eating Steve said, "Bucky?" so hesitantly Bucky looked up at him in surprise. "Can I ask…"

He waited, but when Steve didn't finish, he said, "You can ask anything you want."

"Okay. Tell me to mind my own business if you don't feel like answering, but I was wondering about the way you talk."

He hadn't known what Steve was going to ask, but if forced to guess that wouldn't have been high on the list. "What about it?"

"You sound like me. I mean, not like me, you sound like a Daellander not an American, but the way you talk. You talk like someone from now not like someone from," he paused, made a face that made Bucky want to grin, nose scrunched up and mouth twisted, then said, "history."

Bucky wasn't sure how to answer. How to explain. "It's not just now," he finally said. "Before you, I gave up trying to talk to people, but I still warned them. Watch out. Duck. Hang on. They heard me but they never _heard me_. Not like you." He reached across the table to touch Steve's hand. "But they always understood me. I always sounded like every when," he had to smile at the strangeness of that, "I showed up in."

Steve's brow furrowed.

"That was part of the magic. The world changes. It changes faster than you can imagine. Every time I appeared it was different. Sometimes _nothing_ was familiar, not even the way people talked. I guess the Warhorse would have been useless if he'd gone into shock whenever he appeared, so it changed me to match. I could always understand, no matter how different the language was, and things that should have been impossible seemed normal. The first time I saw cannon the only thing that shocked me was the noise."

"It…adapted you," Steve said slowly. Bucky cocked his head in question. "Adapted," Steve said. "It means changing to survive. It gets colder, so animals grow thicker fur, or trees in dense forests grow taller so they can get the sun. The ones that can't adapt don't survive."

 _Changed to survive._ He sat back, turning it around in his head. Would he have survived without it? He would have lived; nothing could kill the Warhorse. But _Bucky_? If he'd been forced to experience the ever-changing world in all its strangeness, would he have survived? _Maybe. Maybe not._ It had cost him parts of his past. The language of his childhood was gone, like he was a vessel that could only hold so much and it had been pushed out by what came after, but he still had _himself_. Sane and intact.

"Adapted," he said wonderingly, blinking at Steve. Steve, who looked worried enough he might come up out of the chair and across the table to reach him. "It's okay," he said quickly. "I'm okay. It's just a new way of thinking about it."

"You sure?"

He hesitated, then reached back across the table to fold his fingers around Steve's. "I'm sure."

When the staff had cleared away the table and the fancy tableware and the linen napkins, leaving them alone, Bucky walked over to look out the window. It was huge, thick dark curtains on either side, clear glass panes looking out onto the night sky and the glittering stars. Below was a flat rolling lawn, lit around the edges by lights set in the ground. In his day, the windows had been tiny, defensible, just big enough to fire an arrow out of, and the lawn had been stone, straw, and mud.

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think…" He'd charged into cannon fire. Compared to that, this should be easy. "Can we share the bed again?"

He could hear the smile in Steve's voice as he said, "Of course."

When they went to sleep that night, Bucky's memories of the castle were far away, banished by Steve tucked up close against his chest, and he fell asleep to the feel of Steve's heart beating against his arm.

He woke to the room trembling around him. It was small, barely enough to disturb the paintings, but even the slightest shake was enough to wake him.

The small ones were a warning.

He sat up. Steve muttered sleepily, rolling over to curl around him.

"Steve."

A muffled grumble was the only response.

"Steve, I need you to wake up."

Steve's eyes opened and he sat up. "I'm awake."

"There was an earth shake."

"A what?"

"An earth shake. Come on. We have to find Sam. Or Natasha. _Someone._ "

Steve didn't argue. They threw on clothes and he half-towed Steve out the door. Bucky knew this castle, he'd watched it built, knew every turn and cross passage—and he knew the calm before a storm. It was brewing in the people they passed, people who didn't pay enough attention to the two strangers running through the halls.

Bucky let instinct guide him, instinct and memory of the ancient past and the recent now and found his way to the heart of it. Sam was there, and Natasha, both looking haggard, and more men and women, some arguing with Natasha, and if she'd been a horse her ears would have been pinned flat. She was one wrong second from putting someone through a wall.

"What happened?" he asked and dead silence answered him as they all turned to look.

"Who the hell are you?" a woman snapped, pushing forward like she'd lay hands on him.

Steve was beside him, glaring hard, and Bucky could see trouble brewing there if she tried, so he drew himself to his full height, set his shoulders, and channelled his father. "If you needed to know who I was," it rang in the silence, regal and strong and filled with arrogant authority, even if inside he hated himself for it, "you'd already know."

It was effective. She stammered out an apology while Sam hurried over. "That was impressive, but I don't have time for this."

"Sam," Steve said. "I think you should make time."

Sam's mask slipped, revealing raw grief, and Bucky knew. "The king died," he said softly.

"About an hour ago." Sam tried to smile. "It was peaceful, he went in his sleep, and Princess Margaret was with him, but yeah, he died."

Steve caught Sam's arm, squeezing hard. "I'm sorry."

"Thanks." Bucky had seen men shake off wounds, rise up past their own pain to lead the charge into battle, and knew he was seeing it now. "But I don't have time for sorry. The king's gone, we just had our first ever earthquake, and there's some kind of magic unravelling we didn't even know was there."

"It's going out like the tide," Natasha said, waving off the three people who tried to follow her. "And we don't know how to stop it. I don't even know if we should stop it."

He stared unseeing at Natasha as everything suddenly fell into place. Over and over, Steve had questioned why Bucky had come to him. So had Bucky. Even when he'd begun to see the truth of who Steve was, he still hadn't understood.

Until now.

He whirled on Steve, grabbed his arms. "When you figured out what I was, did you even hesitate before you decided to get me free?"

"No."

He pulled Steve close, kissed him, then asked Sam, "Where's the throne?"

"You want to see the throne? Now?"

"I know what's happening and I know how to stop it." _I think. If my father truly was that much of a bloody-hearted bastard._

"There's not really a throne anymore. There's a formal receiving room with a fancy chair."

Bucky made a frustrated noise.

"The old throne's in the national museum," Natasha said. "Will that do?"

"Get me there."

" _Now_?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"I was the WARHORSE," he shouted into sudden confused silence. He lowered his voice. "For centuries I've been saving the damn country! Will you please trust me when I tell you I have to do something?"

Before long they were in a car, zooming through the streets. They reached the museum and were met by a sleepy woman in a duck-printed dressing gown who unlocked it and disabled the security. "Where?" Bucky demanded, and ran where she pointed, Steve and Sam at his heels, until he screeched to a halt in front of his father's throne.

It was inside a glass box. He snarled, grabbed a pole, and smashed it.

"Bucky!" Steve yelled, but he could feel the next shake building. He didn't have time to explain. He grabbed a shard of glass, slashed it through the ball of his left thumb, and slammed his hand down on the throne.

Maybe being the Warhorse had left him sensitive to magic, or maybe it was his imagination, but he felt _something_ react.

Sam's phone beeped. "Whatever you just did worked. Natasha says the magic stabilised. The tide's stopped going out."

"Blood on the throne," Bucky said, exhausted and heart-sick. He looked over at Steve, who was carefully kicking the glass away so— Oh, so he could reach Bucky. Bucky took his hand with the one not currently bleeding on the throne. "My father was a ruthless bastard. Even before he turned me into the Warhorse I knew that. He was a ruthless, bloody minded bastard, but I can't believe…"

Couldn't he? He closed his eyes and there was a cold stone floor under his hands, iron on his wrists, his father's voice: _my blood on the throne and my blood guarding it._ _In time I hope you'll understand_. And he did understand. It was _exactly_ what his father would do. Expecting him to care about the kingdom if his blood no longer ruled would be like expecting the earth shakes to care about the people they'd kill.

"When my father first took this land and made himself king," he said, "the ground used to shake. Sometimes they were small, barely anything. But then the big ones came, and they were vicious. Buildings fell, people died, but he wouldn't give it up."

He opened his eyes, staring at the throne. He remembered when his father had it carved.

"I found a mage who could stop the earth shakes, but the working had to be bound to something. Something that would last." He ground his hand into the throne, ignoring the pain as blood smeared across the stone. "My father must have bound it to his blood on the throne. Your king died," he told Sam, as gently as he could with fire and fury roiling inside him. "His son was already gone. The new queen is queen because she was married to the prince. My father's blood no longer rules. No more blood, no more magic, and the earth shakes have been held back for centuries. I don't know what happens when they're let loose." 

"You're alive," Sam said doubtfully, but there was growing horror on his face.

"No. I mean yes, I am, but I don't count. You have a succession and I'm not in it. Blood or not, I'm not in line for the throne. But magic's stupid." He held tighter to Steve's hand. "I figured that out when I managed to tell Steve about me by telling him I couldn’t tell him. I can trick it because my blood is his blood and it's literally on the throne."

Sam rubbed his temple like it ached, and Bucky sympathised. "You're saying as long as you keep bleeding on the throne, we'll be okay."

"I think so," he said. _I hope so. Please let me be right_ , he thought, and remembered Sam's king, the long-distant descendant of the nephew he'd barely met, saying, _We take everything, and that includes responsibility for everything they did wrong._

* * *

The horrified museum director was placated by Steve's promise of a set of near-pristine horse gear—"It's called tack," Bucky murmured— _tack_ dating from the time of King Barne the First.

"Hope that's okay," he said to Bucky when they were alone again, the director gone to arrange for the museum to be closed and Sam to report back.

"Someone may as well enjoy it," he replied with a tired smile.

The glass had been cleaned up and Steve dragged a bench over so Bucky could sit down. Steve sat next to him. "Can I ask you something?" he said. "Given everything, it's not that important in the grand scheme of things. "

"Sure."

"You kissed me before. Right?"

Bucky rubbed his toe against the floor. "I did."

"Okay, good. I wanted to make sure I didn't imagine that. Can I ask you something else?"

He nodded.

"Do you think you'll do it again?"

"Do you want me to do it again?"

Steve gave him a crooked smile. "Let's put it this way. I was starting to get real worried about the fact that I was falling for a horse." 

It caught at him, reached up under his heart and lodged there. Steve's smile grew, open and honest, and Bucky pulled him in close, the lean length of him tucked up tight against his side. Steve touched his face, fingers brushing down his cheek, carefully skirting the small cut, then kissed him. It was soft and Steve's mouth on his was warm, intent, the closest in centuries he'd ever felt to home.

When Steve leaned back, having somehow ended up mostly in his lap, Bucky revelled in the weight of him. His eyes fluttered half-shut as Steve caught his face with both hands, and when Bucky said, "You should have tried it from the horse side," Steve laughed softly and kissed him again.

Time passed. There was nothing they could do but wait. Bucky opened his cut when it started to close, afraid to push the magic. Steve wandered the museum, never straying far from Bucky.

He brought back pamphlets, explained them, and Bucky learned wonders and marvels and horrors—Steve did his best to skip the horrors, but sometimes they came hand in hand with marvels and wonders.

He was only willing to go so far from Bucky, so eventually he was reduced to what was in the wing. Bucky watched as he walked slowly down the line of royal portraits. He'd pause at some, lift his hand like he'd touch them, then move on. He was utterly unselfconscious, like he'd forgotten or didn't care that Bucky was watching him, and it hit him then how beautiful Steve was. The jut of his jaw, the short glint of his hair. However small he was, every part of him was steeped in strength.

His right hand twitched with the need to touch him.

As if summoned by Bucky's thought, Steve made his way over to stand in front of him. Before Bucky could reach for him, Steve caught his chin, tipping his face up to stare into his eyes. There was an expression on his face Bucky couldn't read.

He let his hand rest on Steve's hip, willing to wait.

Steve ran a gentle thumb along his brow. "Your eyes are the same."

"The same as what?"

"The same as when you were the Warhorse." Bucky blinked. "But they're also the same as theirs," he waved a hand at the row of past kings and queens staring down at them. "Not all of them, but enough. You have the same eyes. They look like a storm. How did no one notice?"

"Because I was a horse?"

"That's not good enough."

He caught Steve's shirt and pulled him down, folding him into a one-armed hug "You think they should have known? That they should have figured it out?"

Steve rumbled angry agreement into his neck and Bucky curled his fingers into his hair. "Maybe they should have. But they didn't and—" He stopped, breathed, kissed the top of Steve's head. "And I'm glad, because if someone had figured it out, I wouldn't be here now."

Steve pulled back, searching his face.

"To do this," he nodded at his hand on the throne, "but also, because I would have missed out on you. The magic sent me to you, Steve, because it knew no one else in the world would fight like you to set me free." He looked away, but Bucky drew him back with a hand on his face. "If it takes me 'til the day I die. Remember? Because I do," he said and kissed him.

For one long endless second, he thought he'd somehow stepped wrong, but then Steve came to life, pressing up into the kiss, mouth sweet and soft under his, and wrapped his arms around him, hands clutching the back of his shirt.

Bucky had one arm around him, pulling him closer, and as the kiss grew deeper, more intense, his left hand, pressed to the throne, twitched. Never breaking the kiss, Steve curled his fingers over Bucky's, gently helping hold his hand in place.

It grabbed Bucky's heart. He pulled back just enough to see Steve. He was soft-eyed, pupils wide and dark, but he offered Bucky that crooked smile. Bucky let his head tip forward to rest against Steve's and closed his eyes, unsure whether to laugh or cry or just hold onto Steve and never let go, because with Steve's careful press of fingers he'd understood. He'd _understood_. Even in this, he wasn't alone. Steve would always help him, always shield him.

"Bucky?" Steve said softly, curling his hand around the back of his neck.

He shook his head—how could he explain?—opened his eyes and kissed him again, and they lost themselves for a time under the gaze of long dead kings and queens.

Hours later, when Sam, Natasha, and Princess—No. She was Queen Margaret now, Bucky thought—arrived, accompanied by casually dressed but very obviously guards, they were sitting together far more calmly, Steve's head on his shoulder. The queen ordered the guards to stand outside the wing, which would place them out of earshot. 

They were obviously exhausted, eyes dark with grief. Sam dragged over two more benches, bowing the queen onto one, which earned him a stern look that he greeted with a shrug.

"Here's what we know," the queen said. "We had an earthquake. Not just us, it stretched into our neighbours as well. It was minor, no serious damage. It was also, according to our records, our first. But from what Sam tells me, that's not the case."

"No, your Majesty," Bucky said. "I don't know why there's no records of them, but I can guess. If anyone knew about what he'd done," he nodded at his hand on the throne, "they could change it. They could undo it. That meant he had to make sure there were no records of anything, not the earth shakes and not the magic that bound them."

She searched his face. "I wish I could say that didn't make sense."

"So do I."

"Well then. We can't install you as a permanent exhibit, sitting here bleeding on the throne, and, forgive me, but we can't make you the next king."

Bucky guessed he looked as horrified as he felt, because a collective chuckle filled the air and Steve leaned into him. "Most people would be excited at the idea of being king."

He shuddered. "Then most people are stupid." He winced. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty."

"I think we'll dispense with that, thank you. If anyone in the world is entitled to call me Margaret, it's you. If you can't manage that, Ma'am is fine."

He gave a quick bob of his head.

"And don't apologise, please. Only a fool or a tyrant would want a crown, and I believe I'm neither. I agreed because my husband died and I loved him dearly enough there was almost nothing I wouldn't have done for him, including taking his place as heir. And I agreed because the man I loved as a father and a king asked it of me, and because there was no one else with a better claim, and because I believe I _can_ do it and do it well. But none of those mean I wanted it. I agree with you, Bucky, you'd have to be stupid to want the job."

"It's probably what was supposed to happen," Bucky said. "Me being the next king. That's why the magic sent me to Steve, because it knew Steve would free me."

"It seems we owe you a great deal," she said to Steve.

Steve shook his head. "You don't owe me anything. All I did was what was right and that's not something you owe people for." He had his stubborn look on, the one Bucky was growing far too fond of, mulish and unyielding, and Bucky nudged him. Steve glanced at him, then bent a little. "But thanks."

There was a calculating look in the queen's eyes, but all she said was, "Very well. Natasha?"

"The magic is old. Obviously. The only thing I've ever seen even close to it is what was wrapped around you," she said to Bucky. "But I think I can figure it out and bind it to something else. The question is what."

"As far as I'm concerned," the queen said, "this all falls under the general constitutional provision of 'dealing with matters relating to the Warhorse' and that means it's my decision. Binding it to me and my bloodline is out, but apart from that I'm happy to take suggestions."

Bucky stared at the floor. "Do you know," he said, an idea tickling at the back of his head, "how my father turned me into the Warhorse?"

Everyone but Steve stared at the apparent non-sequitur; Steve wrapped both hands around Bucky's, holding tight.

"You can't work that kind of magic on someone without their agreement," he continued, "so he tricked me to get it. He did it by asking me if I'd do anything to protect the kingdom. He knew I'd say yes, but he never understood why. Just like he never understood why I searched so hard to find the mage. If he'd understood he'd never have tied the magic that kept the earth shakes under control to his bloodline." He met the new queen's eyes. "It's not the kingdom or who rules it that matters. _People_ are what matters. It's the people who make a kingdom. Who make a country."

"Bind it to the people," Sam said, and Natasha sat straighter. He could almost see sparks flying behind her eyes as she worked it out.

"As long as the country stands—" He squeezed Steve's hand. "Or even if it doesn't. If someday it's gone, replaced by somewhere else. Bind it to whoever lives here by whatever name its known."


	8. So heed the call if he comes for you

The city was quiet, subdued, flags flying at half-mast as a country mourned its king. Most wouldn't be at the funeral being held today—a private ceremony, no grand affair—including Steve and Bucky. They'd both been invited, but they'd declined.

Not from lack of feeling. Steve knew they both felt sadness for the king's death. But Steve's was born of both gratitude and sorrow at the loss of a man who'd found the strength, even dying, to save Bucky. That kind of iron will reminded him of his mom. He knew Bucky's feelings were more complex, tangled with the memory of the man who'd been his father—and Steve wanted so badly to reach back through time and _hurt_ _him_ for what he'd done to Bucky—but neither of them had lost a king. Steve still didn't understand what that meant, but he'd seen Sam's face after the king had died. He'd seen loss sitting heavy on him, Natasha, and the queen, who'd lost a father as well, in the two days Bucky had spent bleeding on the throne.

It was real, however much he didn't understand it, and neither he nor Bucky wanted to intrude.

Those two days were how long it had taken Natasha—and she _was_ Natasha now, not Agent Romanov—working feverishly, and Steve didn't think she'd slept, to coax the magic into recognising something else. Once she'd found the shape of it, parsing ancient magic into modern language, she'd been able to reprogram it. "That's not what I actually did," she'd told him. "But I thought you could understand that."

Bucky had spent those days trapped in the museum, bleeding hand pressed against the hard, stone throne. Steve had stayed with him. It hadn't occurred to him to leave. Once it was suggested, he'd refused.

Maybe it was irrational, but he'd been afraid if he let Bucky out of his sight, he'd be gone. Whisked away and he'd never see him again. Besides, he'd said he'd stay. He'd told Bucky he wouldn't be alone. He knew he'd made the right decision when, the magic reprogrammed, Bucky's hand cleaned and neatly stitched, Bucky had refused the gentle insistence he take a room in the castle, or a guest house, or even a hotel.

"I'm going home with Steve. If I can?" he'd added to Steve, and Steve had brought him home. For the past two weeks he'd held him and laughed with him and watched him trapped in nightmares Steve couldn't wake him from. He'd taught him laundry and microwaves and slept beside him and made him shake with ecstasy, hard under his hands.

They needed to have a conversation. Soon. Steve knew he only had a narrow window to extract his heart, not unbroken, it was far too late for that, but unshattered if he had to. But not today. Today was for walking aimlessly through the city, Bucky's right hand in his, their breath misting in the early chill. 

He didn't realise where they were until Bucky stopped. Steve looked up. "Oh," he said softly, and Bucky gently freed his hand and slowly approached the Warhorse statue.

Steve shoved his hands in his pockets and stayed where he was. "They'd probably pull it down if you asked." Maybe only half a handful of people knew Bucky had saved the country—the queen, Sam, Natasha—but there wasn't much they wouldn't give him. If he'd ask. 

Bucky tilted his head in acknowledgement, but didn't reply, just stood in the shadows staring up at the bronze Warhorse. A hopeful pigeon landed at his feet, cooing, then flew off when it was clear there was nothing to be gained. The normal city sounds were distant, subdued, overlain by the flap of half-mast flags.

He almost jumped out of his skin when Bucky said, "If he'd asked, I might have said yes."

Steve fought the sudden need to grab Bucky and drag him away from whatever he was seeing, whatever he was thinking. Instead he made a quiet, questioning noise.

"My father," Bucky said. "If he'd said James, I need you to guard the kingdom and keep it safe, I might have agreed. That's what a prince is for." He scuffed his boot across the ground. "But he didn't ask." 

It made his heart ache. "You still did it," he said quietly. 

Bucky turned to face him. 

Steve groped for the right words, knew he'd never have them, and gave Bucky what he had, as imperfect as they were. "It wasn't your choice. He was your father and he was supposed to protect you and love you and instead he betrayed you and hurt you and stole you from yourself." He could hear his anger rising and he forced it down. Forced it away. "Everything you did after, Bucky, _you_ did it. You made the difference. You. What Professor Erskine said about the war, you maybe saved everyone. So many lives, and all their kids and their kids' kids and that's thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of people walking around and living because of you."

He gave in and closed the distance between them, wrapping himself around Bucky, and Bucky clutched him tight. "That's yours, Bucky. You did all of that."

They stood in the shadow of the Warhorse, Steve holding him close, the cool breeze swirling around them, until Bucky sighed quietly and leaned back. His eyes were peaceful. Thoughtful as he looked up at the statue and rested his head on Steve's, arms loose around his waist. "Let it stay. Whatever else is true, he protected Daelland." He closed his hand around a bronze leg. Above him, the Warhorse reared, frozen forever in equine defiance, a nameless warrior on his back. "And people believe in him. I won't take that away."

They walked home, comfortably quiet, and as they crossed over onto cobblestones, Bucky said, "I need a name."

"Any specific one, or?"

"Sam put one of his people in charge of giving me an identity, she's going to give me cards and open accounts and put me in the records so I can exist. She told me I have to give her two names. She was very clear I can't be…Beyoncé?"

Steve laughed and pressed his face against Bucky's shoulder. "She's kind of what Americans have instead of royalty, and yes, two names would be easier."

Bucky hummed thoughtfully. "I'm not a prince anymore and—"

"I think technically you are," Steve said under his breath but Bucky ignored him.

"— _and_ the earldom I held no longer exists. Even if it did, it wouldn't be mine, so I can't be James Buchanan." He was quiet as they walked along. "And I won't be Barneson."

It took Steve a moment to catch up: Barneson. Barne's son. King Barne. Bucky's father. "No," he said. "You won't," then added, "You aren't."

He was rewarded with Bucky's smile, bright and warm, as he leaned down to kiss the top of his head. "I suppose there's always Bucky James, but it sounds ridiculous."

"It really does."

"So does James Bucky."

"That's even _worse_."

"And Bucky's _mine_. It's not for cards and accounts and records." Steve could feel the weight of his gaze. "Can I have yours?"

He didn't let himself think, just gave him truth like an offering. "You can have anything of me you want."

"James Rogers," he said, trying it out, and nodded. "That solves that problem." Steve stopped walking. "Doesn't it?" He squinted at Steve. "Are you okay?"

He let out a shaky breath. "Fine, Bucky. I'm fine."

"Then come on. You can show me who Beyoncé is."

* * *

Queen Margaret's coronation was months away. It _would_ be a grand affair.

"Full of tiresome pomp," she'd said wearily when she'd personally invited them to the investiture ceremony that would far precede it, in which her ascension to queen would be formalised. A coronation, it turned out, didn't make the queen; it was just window dressing for the world. "I'd very much like you both to attend, both the coronation when it's organised and the investiture, which will be much more tolerable."

Steve was starting to get used to having meetings with the queen. Meetings that he knew were really about Bucky, but he was always included as Sam and Natasha did their best to record the truth of the Warhorse. It was a record that wouldn't see the light of day until they were all safely dead, but Steve agreed with Bucky: it was a truth that needed to be told.

The day of the investiture ceremony, Steve stood in front of Bucky and smoothed down Bucky's shirt before he looped the tie around his neck and tucked it under his collar. Appropriate formal wear, which neither of them possessed—Steve, because he'd never owned anything this fancy; Bucky, because until recently he'd been an immortal horse of legend—had arrived a few days ago.

Bucky was stunning. They'd never been measured, so it was impossible that the clothes had been custom tailored, but the dark blue pants and the impossibly crisp silvery white shirt fit Bucky like they'd been made for him. Steve couldn’t help thinking he'd held onto a little of the Warhorse. It was there in the way Bucky moved, the way he held himself, all graceful controlled strength, or maybe that was the legacy of the warrior.

Bucky tucked his chin to watch as Steve tied his tie. His hair, still damp from their shower, curled against his cheek, and his eyes were warm. His touch on the back of Steve's hand was warm, his fingers gentle, and Steve knew it was too late. It had always been too late. The window was closed, his heart was spun glass, and it belonged to the man in front of him.

He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. When he opened them, Bucky was gazing down at him with concern.

"I know this is bad timing," Steve said. "Possibly the worst timing, but I need to say something to you. I should have said it sooner. I meant to say it sooner, but I…didn't."

"I'm listening."

He forced his hands to his sides and kept his eyes on one of the perfectly sewn buttons holding Bucky's shirt closed.

"You came home with me and you stayed with me and we fell into being together and I—" He stopped, because this wasn't about how he felt. Bucky was what mattered. "I'm the first person who saw _you_. You're living in an entirely new world carrying the weight of the Warhorse and maybe staying with me is just simpler." He took another steadying breath. "So I need you to know, no matter what happens, no matter what you choose, if you want to leave, go to the castle, go anywhere, go _everywhere_ , I'll still be here. If you need me, I'll be here. Always. You don't have to be scared and you don't have to stay. You have choices."

When he finished, the only sound was their breathing and he kept his eyes on the button.

"Steve." Bucky's touch was very firm as his hands closed around Steve's shoulders. "I've spent centuries being spat into an ever-different world. I've been a warrior and a prince and an immortal warhorse. I've lived through more history than you probably know exists."

He brushed his fingers up Steve's neck, making Steve shiver, then tipped his chin up. Bucky's eyes were clear as the sky after a storm.

"In all that time the only constant was the unchanging stars. Until you. I love you." Steve's heart stopped, stunned, then started pounding, relief and joy flowing through his veins. Bucky moved closer, voice soft as he went on: "I want to be with you. That's where I want my life to be. Not because it's simpler." The corner of his mouth ticked up. "I don't think we'll be simple. You're a fighter, and you're stubborn, so we'll probably argue since you're not alone in those. You know who you are and I'm still figuring that out. But if you think I'm only here because it's easier, or because you're something I'm used to in all this strangeness, you're wrong. I love you because I love you."

He swallowed hard as Bucky brushed a thumb down his cheek. "I love you, too. You know that."

"I hoped. I didn't know."

"I do. That's why I needed you to know you had a choice." 

"That's not why." Bucky was smiling now, head tilted in a way that was so familiar. "You would have done it anyway, even if you didn't love me. That's who you are."

He ducked his head, or tried to. Bucky didn't let him, pulling him in and kissing him softly, gently, hands sliding around to hold him close. Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky and put his head on his chest, smiling when Bucky kissed the top of his head.

"Imagine," Bucky said against his temple, "how awkward that would've been if I was still a horse."

Since the day at the statue, Bucky'd been easier about the Warhorse. Steve was still working on _easy_ , but he tried. "It'd be a lot harder to kiss you," he said, leaning back.

Bucky bumped his nose against Steve's, eyes glinting. "Longer tongue, though."

"What was that you said about arguing?" he said, fighting back a grin, and Bucky laughed as Steve dragged him down into another kiss. 

* * *

When the investiture ceremony was over, Queen Margaret turned and bowed her head to the assembled crowd. In turn, they bowed deeply to her. Steve watched Bucky and followed his graceful lead since he had no idea how you were supposed to bow.

Strangely, it didn't feel strange.

The ceremony hadn't been what he'd expected. He'd thought it would be elaborate. Gold and jewels and a gleaming crown. Instead it had been quiet. Solemn. Queen Margaret was stunningly beautiful, radiant in a deep green dress that brushed the floor, but she'd walked into the echoing chamber and up the steps to the raised dais alone, the only jewellery in evidence her wedding ring.

She'd knelt on the dais and the Prime Minister, a short stocky woman whose black hair was streaked with silver, had placed the crown on her head. Bucky's hand had tightened on his. When Steve had glanced at him, he'd said, so quiet Steve had barely heard him, "It's the same crown."

Maybe that explained its lack of gold, its almost brutal simplicity. It was silver, thick enough they could easily see it from where they stood at the back of the hall, and it did shine in the light, but there were no jewels. No diamonds or rubies. Just a circle of metal placed on the head of a woman who'd put her hands between the Prime Minister's and sworn to protect her country and its people. To protect their laws and their constitution. To sacrifice to her last breath to keep Daelland safe.

Beside him, Bucky had made a small, shocked noise. "That," he'd said, "that's not the same," and he'd sounded… there'd been awe there, and satisfaction, and something Steve had thought was joy. Steve had leaned into him and Bucky had pulled him close and they'd stayed that way until it had been time to bow.

Bucky's joy and a vow to protect her people. Maybe that was why bowing hadn't seemed strange.

When the queen had gone, people starting to mill around, waiting for the celebrations to start, he turned to Bucky. "You okay?"

Bucky nodded and Steve went up on his toes to kiss him.

They watched the fancy and, presumably, important people circulating and making small talk. No one approached them, but they'd moved so they were half hidden behind some decorative greenery—and were neither fancy nor important—so that wasn't surprising.

What _was_ surprising was the slightly stooped figure ambling slowly through the crowd, smiling genially at anyone who caught his eye.

"Professor Erskine?" Steve called as they left their greenery to make their way over to him.

"Steve," he answered when they reached him, seeming genuinely delighted. "It seems you managed all right in the end," he gestured around, "given the country remains in one piece."

"We did," Steve replied. "But we wouldn’t have without your help."

Bucky leaned on his shoulder, a warm solid weight. He had a strange smile on his face and when he caught Steve's eye, he nodded.

Steve didn't get it right away, but when he did, he widened his eyes at Bucky, asking _are you sure?_ , and Bucky nodded again. He hesitated, but if anyone deserved to know, it was Professor Erskine. Without him, without a long-ago child's belief in the Warhorse and a lifetime of knowledge, Bucky might not… No, Bucky _wouldn't_ be standing safe beside him and none of them might be standing safe at all.

"Professor? Do you still want to know how it turned out?"

"Unless it's too classified for an old academic. I know my paper must have ended up in some interesting places." His eyes twinkled. "I can't imagine why else I was invited to rub shoulders with the rich and fancy."

"In that case I'd like to introduce you to someone." He put his arm around Bucky and drew him forward. "This is James."

"Lovely to meet you, James. Are you a friend of…" He stopped. "James." He turned to Steve, whole body a question, and when Steve nodded he stepped forward, propriety forgotten as he lifted a wrinkled hand and touched Bucky's face, turning it this way and that, then stared at his eyes. " _James_."

"James," Bucky agreed softly. "But please call me Bucky."

"The Earldom of Buchanan," Professor Erskine said. "Dissolved by the Crown in 1632 when the last Earl died without issue."

"Yes."

The Professor's eyes clouded with tears.

Bucky dipped his head, hair falling over his face. "Without you I wouldn't be standing here."

He reached for Bucky's hand, patting it gently, voice shaky. "How many of us can say the same?"

Bucky shook his head.

One of the queen's ubiquitous suit-clad security approached. "Mr Rogers and Mr Rogers? Can you come with me, please?"

Professor's Erskine's face went slack with surprise. "Steve, did you— Are you _married_?"

"No!" Steve said quickly while Bucky slowly raised his eyebrows. "He needed a last name, so I gave him mine."

"You didn't tell me people would think we were married," Bucky said mildly.

"Sorry," Steve muttered.

"I didn't say I minded."

Professor Erskine covered a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. "I'd better let this young woman take you away before she decides to get rough. But Bucky," there was an avid light in his eyes, "I _will_ have questions."

"I'll do my best to give you answers," Bucky promised and then they were being herded away by the queen's security. They followed her out a door and down a narrow passage and through an ornate set of iron and wood doors that looked built to withstand a siege. The room on the other side looked like a proper castle, with a high ceiling and the curved stone walls unplastered—even if the floor had carpet deep enough to drown in.

The queen was standing in the middle of the room, flanked by Sam and Natasha, and when she saw Steve she smiled and waved at her security. One of them made a face, but they obediently trooped out the door he and Bucky had just come through and pulled it shut behind them.

"Steve," she said. "You're just the man I wanted to see."

Sam was grinning and Natasha looked like the proverbial cat who'd caught the canary. Or maybe the cat who'd stalked the canary to the ground and was just about to pounce. He glanced at Bucky, but Bucky lifted a shoulder, so there was no help coming from there.

"I don't have much time, there's an unavoidable amount of formal nonsense still to be endured, but I've made time for this, since I couldn't do it before. There are some things that can only be done after the investiture."

Mystified, Steve took a few steps forward, Bucky at his side. "How can I help?"

"You can kneel."

Baffled, he didn't, just stared at her. Natasha picked a long black case up off a table and held it out. Sam flipped the latches and opened it and then the queen was drawing out a sword. Beside him, Bucky tensed, giving Steve a glimpse of the Warhorse and the warrior, his eyes cold as steel, but as the queen held the sword at her side and gestured to Steve, he relaxed.

Whatever was going on, Bucky was suddenly in on it. 

"Steve," he said, tone warm with pride, "go on," and just in case Steve was still confused, Sam set down a pillow.

"What?" he said, but he knew. He'd only ever been able to lie to himself for so long. "No."

Everyone in the room except Queen Margaret winced; thankfully she just tilted her head, giving him an amused smile. "This will be my first act as queen, Steven. Kindly don't spoil it."

And how could he refuse that? He knelt on the pillow and bowed his head as she stood in front of him.

He could feel the weight of her gaze, could see her elegant fingers wrapped around the hilt of the sword and they tightened as she began to speak. "Because of who you are, you saw past what the Warhorse was to who he is and you fought to free him. Not only did you right a tremendous wrong, you freed Us from the chains of a wrong that was done when Our country was barely born, a wrong We've been committing for centuries. And because of who you are, Steve Rogers, you saved Our country."

"It—" _was Bucky,_ he wanted to say, except his throat locked up, but it didn't matter.

This was happening.

She brought the sword down to lightly touch his left shoulder, then his right. "I name you a knight of Daelland, Sir Steven. There are certain duties I'm supposed to charge you to uphold, but for you I don't believe it's necessary." She touched the sword gently to the top of his head and let it rest there. "You are already good and loyal and true."

Mute, he stared up at her. Her eyes were warm, strength in them to rival the sword in her hand. He could hear Bucky behind him, so attuned to his presence he knew the sound of him moving, but he couldn't have pulled his gaze from the queen if the earth had suddenly shaken itself apart.

She lifted the sword away, holding it at her side, and extended her hand. He took it and she pulled him to his feet. "Thank you," she said softly, and kissed his forehead.

"I didn't do anything special," he half-whispered. 

"And the fact that you believe that, Steve, is why he was sent to you." She let him go and stepped back and Bucky was there.

"Your Majesty?" Bucky said, pulling Steve against his chest, arms looped around his waist. "Isn't there something you're forgetting?" Steve leaned into him, grateful for his support, overwhelmed by what had just happened.

"And what might that be?" the queen asked as she handed the sword to Sam.

"Something a knight needs?" There was gentle humour in his voice and Steve twisted around to see mischief in his eyes. "Something his liege lord is charged to provide?"

The queen's lips twitched as she said, "I think in Sir Steven's specific case we might forego the horse," and Bucky laughed quietly and held him tighter.

Sam put the sword in its case, flicked the latches shut, then turned around. "I don't know about a horse," he said, flashing Steve a quick grin, "but I do know where I can get my hands on a very cute donkey."


End file.
